The words are what happen
when I’m sliced across the middle
and sand falls out of my body.
The grains swirl and bound
and disperse,
until they settle on the ground,
gentling moving with the wind.
Until then, they jump like memories
that pull apart and come back together–
quick– before they disintegrate in your hands
like sand.
But to write
is to wring out all the words inside you.
They belong on the ground by the sea.
And if you look up, you realize,
you have hollowed out and made room for the stars.
