Prelude

The weeks slip through our fingers like the dry sand blowing across the dunes
Swept into a cardboard box filled with forgotten photographs
And abandoned songs
The past few years are illuminated only by the dim glow
Of a sun setting in the east
It’s almost night
I scour the landscape trying to make out your familiar shape against the horizon
But it’s amazing how rarely our paths cross considering we share the same bed
The sand stings my face and I keep walking, keep looking
And I can barely make out the sound of my own voice beneath the wind:
Maybe we’ll be alone