I mistook those grains of sand for granite chips, and saw you carving a promise. Surely, such words, from your serious, melancholy self were the work of a chisel on hard rock. You wept with love; I melted.
Licking your taste from my lips, I could not see that your passion was merely wild, alcoholic optimism. Your words were written not in granite, but in the wet sand at the edge of the ocean. I slept and dreamed the round, satisfied dreams of a woman fulfilled, secure, beloved.
With the morning came the sobering tide. On my knees at water’s edge, I found not even the stick you wrote with.