Left Behind Grains
by Noah Mercer
· 12/12/2025
Published 12/12/2025 08:54
An old shoebox,
empty now.
But at the bottom,
a silver dusting,
beach sand.
From where? From when?
My fingers sift
the fine grit.
A faint salt memory,
a sun-baked dream.
It gets everywhere.
On the polished wood,
between the floorboards.
Each grain a tiny clock,
counting seconds
from a day I've lost.
How did it hold on
for so long?