Pens and Pages

There were traces remaining, like footsteps on wet sand. They could be wiped off by his slightest touch, a slightly stronger wind, but he chose not to, and no such wind blew. Those traces, they remained, exposed, sullied, as if they awaited her; her homecoming. But she, she was nowhere near, unseen, unheard of, like the tiniest pieces of broken glass dissolved in the dusty air... Eons, then, passed, the wet sand coagulated, telling stories they once bore, as traces waiting to be effaced...