sand.

all i remember is sand, sand between your fingers and my shoulder, a gritty layer overlying the warmth beneath, so that you never really touched me.

sand between our toes one evening as the sun set behind us, sand on which i lay that night when you came to me. your voice in my ear, weaving nets of temptation and potential.

cool sand between the woven mat and my body, a light sheen of sweat; it was a warm night. and your eyes dark in the dim firelight as i wondered if this was surrender.

your hair the colour of wet sand in the morning after the tide goes out, the colour of sand in a glass; one turn, and those grains that lay together for a few lifetimes in some languages, a few breathless moments in others, they all shift, sundered by a mere hour's passing. then they fall into innumerable permutations of innumerable combinations, perhaps no two grains of sand to ever meet again in all the turnings of that glass.