There is no horizon anymore.
Only a trembling blur where sky and earth dissolve into each other,
as if the world forgot how to separate itself.

The wind drags entire distances across my face,
grains of sand carving small, unimportant wounds into the skin,
the kind that never bleed but never truly heal.
I try to look ahead, but my eyes learn only to endure,
not to see.

The storm swallows direction.
There is no path, only movement,
and even that feels borrowed, uncertain,
as though every step could crumble beneath its own intention.

The sand reaches inside the breath,
inside the mouth,
inside the thoughts.
Tears do not fall here,
they are taken, absorbed, turned into more sand.
Soon even the act of crying becomes another way of disappearing.

I begin to feel less like a person and more like a figure sculpted by the storm,
shaped and unshaped at once,
a fragile outline barely holding together
while the wind negotiates what part of me deserves to remain.

If I fall, I will not break,
I will scatter.
Not with violence, but with inevitability.
A quiet erasure, grain by grain,
until there is nothing left to remember
where I once tried to stand.

my dune

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my dune

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