Written by Ida Grey
Time is a child,
with ribbons in her hair,
and ice cream melting
all over her hands.
It is the song that ends
on the outskirts of town.
The locals used to call it
the end of the world.
We hug each other
goodbye every summer,
and my fingers always
get stuck in your hair.
Once, we could see our
houses from here.
Now, it is all just
melted ice cream
and a reminder to
breathe more slowly.
Text © Ida Grey
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