At night the sand flows into our rooms, and it is a little easier to imagine how we could leave.  

How long have I known, and when did I decide on this sad version I admit to everyone but you?  

I wake instantly to the absence of your hands.  

The light makes its way through the curls of your hair, then falls to the floor.  

Eventually there will be too many of them for anything but hate.  

It is little consolation to drown in better water.  

Around the next corner, I swear, I will understand something I have brought us here to face.  

His letters got longer, but drifted farther, until too much space crept in between the words, and the paper could no longer carry me from one to the next fast enough to be sure it was still him I was missing.  

Walk to the bridge with me again, just this once more, in the dress I bought you with money from the smell of burned cotton and the gleaming shards of sighs.  

At night the sand flows into our rooms, and we trace channels back through it into the sea and away.