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Sand, Not Granite

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.


About imagineannie

I feel like I'm fifteen - does that count? I'm lots of things, I get paid to be the Managing Editor for a local news publication, and I love my job. I am also inordinately fond of reading, animals (I have four), elephants, owls, hedgehogs writing, tramping in the woods, cooking India, Ireland, England, avocado toast, Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, Little Women, Fun Home, Lumber Janes, Fangirl, magic, Neil Gaiman, Jane Austen, YA books, not YA books, classical music, Salinger (OMG SALINGER), Brahms, key lime pie, indie music, podcasts, sleeping in, road trips, marmalade, museums, bookstores, the Oxford comma, BBC, The Miss Fisher Mysteries, birdwatching, seashells, kombucha, and stickers. Not a huge fan of chewing gum, jazz, trucker hats or dystopian and/or post-apolcalyptic fiction (but I'll try anything).

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