It’s the thing that slips between the fingers
as sand from the from the tropical coasts.
There’s one last grain, one last letter,
but falling captive to gravity and to doubt.
Like groping hands in thick black night,
stumbling for a clue or trigger.
The honest truth, there isn’t a hope,
just wild guesses in the dark.
Giving up would mean the end,
defeat in this civil war.
Mind always wins at intensions war,
and the casualties are always forgotten.
That first letter and the sound that it makes.
His first name and how you met.
Their first words and breath,
all grains of sand slipping past.
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