Prelude

The weeks slip through our fingers
Like the dry sand blowing across the dunes
Swept into a cardboard box
Filled with forgotten photographs and abandoned songs

The past few years are illuminated
Only by the dim glow of a sun setting in the east
It's almost night
I scour the landscape
Trying to make out your familiar shape against the horizon
But it's amazing how rarely our paths cross
Considering we share the same bed

The sand stings my face
I keep walking, keep looking
And I can barely make out the sound of my own voice
Beneath the wind
Maybe we'll be alone
Maybe we'll be alone