generic.

If I could,
I would go against the grains..
of sand.
They draw the line.
impossible to cross.
So there the line sits,
waiting for a specific moment,
at an unspecified time.
Her hair flows
in the winds of separation.
With the lilac scent of
yearning.
Should it be made of glass,
I dare not break it.
For I'd be at fault,
and you'd be in danger.
and if it were as clear,
as the salty rivulets
ceasing to dry,
I might be able to
respect it's boundaries.