I will be here till I’m dust.
My hands will wither.
My feet will prune.
My hair once lush and soft
shall fall and mix with seaweed.
My tears will crystalize
to be carried off as trinkets for seagulls
impressive to them; not enough to attract the one
I want most.
When my eyes no longer open
my body shall mold into the soil.
I will be here till I’m dust.
