The lines between us are for me to draw. Penciled in. Pounded down. Bled out and blurred like my sight when I look up from this righteous work. I painstakingly lay the grains.
The lines in your sand drift and shift toward you. Ghosts have been given up in the days you’ve spent falling in love with me. I step closer and start again.
The lines I’d cross to paint ours were a waste of patient hands. I’d spare them not a glance in passing. They die and drown away in my periphery while I set up shop and shorten the rope.
Years, miles, habits, lies, love. All but one shrink in the dwindling pool I draw between us. Soon I’ll see you again.
Memory may fail us but these lines won’t. They’ve been drawn with kind hands and meticulous touch. They were conceived with purpose and last chance in mind. They were built with your truth in my heart.