I haven't seen a beach

I haven't seen a beach

in, what, eight months? More.

But there it was,

a little, gritty pour

at the bottom of my bag.

My purse. My safe,

mundane, city-bound thing.

A pale, unmoving waif.

It clung to the lining,

a stubborn, tiny dust.

A feeling of erasure,

a quiet, sudden rust

on the ordinary day.

I rubbed it with my thumb,

each grain a sharp pinprick,

making my mind go numb

with how it got there.

A hitchhiker, a memory,

or just some indifferent

thing, come to lecture me

on how small I am.

How temporary.

The sound it makes,

a faint, dry worry.

Just a scrape.

A persistent, small

scratch, no escape.