Why is it when I am done with the day,
have just pulled the dust cover over my brain,
I close my eyes with a prayer but again
the Zoetrope of memory starts slowly to spin:
we’re kids at the beach, we’re covered in sand,
you trot ahead, and I just miss your hand.
The wind eats my words and salt burns my eyes,
sand sinks beneath me as you leave me behind.
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