I Dream of Sandcastles

I mold the tower, round the sides until the imprint of my fingertips is gone.

I step back, no longer bothered by the sand between my toes.

Here is Versailles;

here is Schloss Neuschwanstein;

here is December made of seashells and white sand.

I hear the roar—

turn my face to the light;

I close my eyes

as the water strikes.

It does not pull me under.

It does not pull me under.

I turn back to Voergaard;

I turn back to the Citadel;

I turn back to December—

It pulled me under.

I kneel to mold the sand, to once more craft our tower—

I wake in the dark to my 6 a.m. alarm—

I must get up now.

I must get up now.

(This piece has been previously published on Teen Ink)

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