November 16, 2008
It's the sound of sand beneath our feet,
as we imprint our hearts in the wetness of the almost vacant beach.

It's the sound of my heart, slipping from my body,
as I hear the news that your footprints have washed away.

It's the sound of our feet skipping in the mud,
as we prance and dance around, imprinting our hearts on your mother's new Russian rug.

That's the sound of my tears slipping out,
as I squeeze my eyes close to stop them.

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