Sands of time: A short poem

Days.
Weeks.
Months.

Passing by like sand on a windy day.
Stinging exposed skin as it flies past, escaping every hope of being examined.
Every passing second a grain, cutting flesh and creating a wound.

The cuts outweigh the skin as more of my time leaves.
It would hurt of I knew what time felt like.
But instead, it just leaves faint red behind.