There Are No Fairytales

The sand girl, structured on time,
with thoughts as fleeting
as the wind. Directed, and distracted,
she is a lover with no home
that sticks.

She lingers too long, craves too much.
(She should be more grateful for her time). An
exploding flower desiring sunlight, water, constant attention
for growth; she unfurls that beauty
one slow soft petal after another. Still,
in the cold nights of September, the petals will always
stiffen, haunting a past of colors and wetness, embracing
an impossible future
without warmth.

She craves to be covered
by the words she misses most-
the symphony of sweetness from a love that is
other than. The things she craves hike in
these distant peaks without her,
they make friends with longing, and
each other. All the while time does its dirty
work, reducing us all to sand. To cravings
and memories; to an involuntary heart
simple and beating.

She always looks skyward first,
in the morning. Her body swollen
from letting go
of another dream.

There are no fairly tales
here.