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Before I learned the softness of crumbling, I carried form, purpose, and certainty.
I stood upright against wind and water, and I believed solidity was a kind of immortality.
But everything mankind touched eventually became sand.
And so did I.
The moment of breaking was not violent; it was almost tender, like lips brushing skin before the kiss deepens.
I felt myself loosen — fragments.
I became texture instead of structure, a sensation rather than an object.
I cling to skin, to warmth, to breath, to the inside of a mouth tasting salt after the sea.
I am what remains on the body after closeness, what refuses to be brushed away.
I have learned how to travel without direction.
I am shaped by every wind, reshaped by every touch.
I gather, disappear, then return in the next gust.
Sometimes I remember the edges that protected me from vanishing and the gravity that kept me from drifting.
I used to believe that to be whole was to matter.
Now I live in the space between the fingers that hold me, the whisper slipping through the hands that try to keep me.
There is a strangeness in being endlessly felt.
To be touched by many hands and held by none.
Is that freedom?
If I dissolve to be held, will there be anything left of me to remember?
I am sand.
I am still learning how to exist in little grains, but I remember everything.