The sand slips through my fingers, like the hands of your ghost. The mirrors in our house hold your figure like picture frames, small reenactments of the past. A reminder that there’s no one else I’d rather be haunted by.
7h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 12:09 PM UTC
The sand slips through my fingers, like the hands of your ghost. The mirrors in our house hold your figure like picture frames, small reenactments of the past. A reminder that there’s no one else I’d rather be haunted by.
