In my sleep I dream of bright days,
the sun touched my skin.
In deserts and memories,
and sand laced with thoughts and voices.
I still have the smell of the wind in my nose.
All the holding of time in my hands,
melting through my chalky fingers,
to my tired feet,
and rotting away.
Facing the spiraling sky,
reaching it's fingers into my mind,
uprooting my feet,
and pulling to the surface of my skin,
of every forced goodbye.