Tuesday, February 1, 2011


I walked out to the sand and stood there, dazed by the morning sun.
The fire had long turned to coal and ashes, but I was still warm from the blankets inside my tent.
This was the first morning I'd woken up in a long time without your small hands clutching on to my fingers.
I saw the door had been left half unzipped in the dark last night,
I presumed you just went out to cool down, but now I see all your stuff is missing.
Please don't leave me.
I swear I must've traced every possible footprint scattered across the sand,
None of them led me back to your soft lips, to your small hands.
I stumbled across the entrance of the cave we spent our first night down by the beach together.
The kerosene lamp still wedged between two rocks on the roof of the small cave.
I wish I could step back into my memory, I'd carry you back onto the sand.
Please come back with me.

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