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What I would give to
be a lone grain within a
Sahara sandstorm
a fragment of drought
scattering itself across
nowhere, singing with
the slow erosion. I long
to be this, to be loved
despite it. You’ll always
drag your fingers through
me

how many grains can
the gusts steal before
a dune is gone? There’s
no such thing as a static
state: Everything dies
still nothing rests.

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