White Sand

Looking through, sifting through white sand for a grain of dark. The sun lifting from the white clouds reflecting on the ground with a spark. A rekindle, a reflection of long years of struggle. Now, all I have is white sand, bright lights, and a demand to finally find something dark. Sifting through these hopeful years of new plans, new days, new romances to lay upon the pillow. Sounds from stilettos hitting concrete floors embedding my mind. Crouching, digging until my knees give and I'm sitting with legs crossed in this hot molten sand burning my hands. Sifting, looking for something, anything of color is what I demand. As the sun sets, a cold breeze is felt in the air, staring at the sky, then looking back at the sand that has now turned to charcoal. From elbows down, filled with black powder dust. Feeling empty, cold, helpless, who can I trust? The musk in the air is reminiscent of foreign pilots who shower once a week. Weak, my desire fulfilled and entered into its peak. Speak but only whispers are heard. Absurd but what I have worked hard for to find is everywhere. Spare the pity as I sift through the dark, charcoal sand looking for one grain of white.