Red spider lilies drift with the current beneath the setting sun, bearing whose longing and whose smile?
Those who once passed through our lives, those who have already left, all become memories.
One voice says, "Forget it."
Another says, "Pick it up."
A hand reaches toward the sky, where there is no other shore, imagining every grain of sand in memory hiding behind the clouds.
Grasping at emptiness, once, then again.
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