this may deserve its own entry

Staring at a mound of sand resting in your humble hand,
you swore that not a single grain would sift through your unyielding palms.
In turn, my brain swore to dismiss the scarlet horns of your mischief,
and quick were you to bring such calm, sealed with the scarlet of your lips.

You and I waited,
legs sewn betwixt
the sand, transfixed
by lips elated.

You and I waited,
the sun lays intermixed with
the sky and sea with which
its cycle rests ill fated.

In time, the forceful draft of night ushered forth the sweet delight
of a fleeting circumvention and a promise left intact.
Your most vigilant palms feigned most pitiful qualms
and in turn made your hopes into fact.

You and I enumerated
each swiftly soaring speck of sand
that parted from your smiling hand
by means of secret wishes—
or fortunes—
that you and I
had never planned.