When we were young,
we never did put a name to it,
this thing between us.

I let it fall away,
slide through my fingertips
like fine-grained sand.

You scooped it into a pouch,
kept it safe in your pocket.

Youth no longer gilds
me with favor.
Tired birds cling to my shoulder blades.

I name the reasons
you should reject me,
make detailed lists.

You take out the pouch,
pour sand till it fills my hands.

Look, you say, flicking away the birds.
it glitters as gold in the sunlight,
made even more precious
by the passage of time.

Pris Campbell

Art: Nude by Dali

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