This tentative reaching will be no more
than a grain of sand, perhaps, slipping down
betwixt fingers to beaches of hurried
memories, harmless until they bury
with heavy forced devotion all of you—
save for parts that until seconds ago were
deemed central, the sun beating a red hue
into skin; sinking, painful, just like your
moments where silence would seep in, demand
all attention, peel off into the sand
and wait there— a stranger with untrained eyes
might even mistake this instance as sweet,
or honest, sincere, and see the laughter
from children toeing the line between wet
heavy clumps of smooth celerity and
the blistering stuckness of the past as
almost holy; smelling saltwater now,
every laugh you hear holds a bit of fear
that all breath and blood will be lost. The tide
gifts the world with its imperfect motion
and still you hope. Maybe now you will not
drown.