You are the sand.

Molecules.

Small bits.

Sturdy as stone,

Yet you crumble under the feet of each and every tourist that crushes you for holiday sport on sunny days.

One day a castle,

Gloriously and meticulously

Built.

The next a pit,

Sharp edged,

And sat in by children and overweight mothers without suntans.

You are not one of them,

Yet you are made one with them

When they bury their youngest brother and laugh, and he laughs too, and you’re in his hair and then his mouth, and then you feel more separated from yourself than ever.