Trails of brine across her cheeks,
she tastes the salt of tears upon her lips.
(Memories of laughter and sorrow,
touch and shadow)
Father Time's beard will grow,
yes, slow as it may be.
Time will go on,
sand tumbling down the hourglass
around his neck.
Her place will find her eventually.
Her mind will trace their familiarities
and know they will meet her again
(and no longer be ghosts upon
her memory) but for now,
she will stay sombre.