Bricks are preferable.

You want me to be concrete,

but I'm not even sure I exist anymore.

I'm intangible.

A wraith,

a mockery of who I was.

Don't touch me, because I'm scared I'll disintegrate.

It would be easier if I were a brick,

Fearing nothing but the wind and rain.

Bricks can be made into something lovely.

Art.

Layer upon layer of paint.

A brick wall is a blank canvas.

(I want to be a blank canvas. Then maybe you could forget everything I've confessed to you.)

I want to be a century-old brownstone,

history screaming from my pores,

but with someone new always ignoring my past and making me part of their future. 

I'm really nothing more than the sand you empty out of your shoes.

You look at your footprints rather than what they're pressed into.

I'm just pieces of what I used to be,

Blowing into your eyes and your mouth.

I just hope that maybe someday I'll be something more than a few scattered grains.

Something worth seeing.

Something worth saving.

Until then,

I'm here, under your towel and in your hair.

Feel free to wash me down the drain, though, because I've been there before.

Of course, not even the water will recognize an old friend.

--Alis