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Sand

Why can’t I be the soft  sand, comforting and cleansing you, keeping the beach  renewed and repaired—grainy and constantly changing.  The hermit crab holes under  me. A sun ray on a baking day. The surfer, the worn down street, the conch shell, once listened to, not knowing if the tides were truly being heard— and you.

Sand

Why can’t I be the soft sand, comforting and cleansing you, keeping the beach renewed and repaired—grainy and constantly changing. The...

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