sand in my hands

Ever try to hold fine sand in your hands?

The tighter you grip,
the more grains slip.
You lessen your grip,
and down they pour.
And if you dare open your hands
to see how much is left,
only small clusters will remain.

So you clench your fists and carry on
believing you will have enough proof
to smile to yourself
when memory deceives you.
And when you’ve held it all you can,
knowing each grain by heart
And you long to use your hands once more

You stretch your palms
to wipe them clean
but those last grains
will not fall away.
Embedded too deep,
they start to burn and scour
and foul everything you touch.

You see, I really just want
to be rid of this sand
But the only way
to let go of these grains
is to stick my hands
in the sand again.
Before the shore gets too far away.

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