The Wind and the oven sprawl of sand no one can still. We burn here. We burn like barren wombs and upturned tombs. Here the heavens sing in screams. I can feel the wind between bone and muscle, our skin hardens and catches air.
We weep without the sea. We, with our dry eyes and tanned skin, mummified by green scarves, are not without happiness. The night is sweet, slick, and lovely.
We are nameless to so many. We are nameless under the layers of our uniformed hope. Here we drift. If dandelions could grow we would be like them. Instead, we are all broken mountain dust trying to get home and rise above.
Here, in Sand, we find ourselves, adults, long before our bodies catch up to our souls.