when you called I couldnt answer, my mouth was full of sand

when i opened my mouth to speak, the words got stuck at the intersection between my heart and spleen. i could feel their hard edges caught in the soft ridges of my throat, each one a painful pinprick.
the dirt on the edge of the road somewhere between Idaho and hell raised clouds of dust around my bare feet like wayward clouds of powdered sugar, the heat danced off the cracked asphalt, jagged and buckled at the edges like a giant hacksaw. when the cars passed by, the smell of hot oil swept over me like a wave with an undertow. your shoes never touched the dirt, like a toddler who only dips the tips of their toes into the shallow end of a pool.
the lamp on the bedside table cast light over the bedspread in muted bands of yellow like butter in grits, one side conspicuously empty and uninterrupted, no dips and valleys to cast a contrast. there was more room now for all the books yet to be read, all the journals waiting to be filled. all the time in the world now, there was no rush.
the sand on the beach was cold and gritty, it matched the sky, and the ocean. on days like this it was a treat, the weather drove people inside, like blind and terrified moles. lying on my back i dig my body deeper into the sand and open my eyes to the gray rain, coming down to contort everything and paint everything one color.