She has always been told that the harder she held onto the fistful of sand (friendship? love?), the faster it will trickle out of her hands.

She never listens, as she held (clutched) harder and harder, trying to salvage as many of the tiny grains as possible.

Yet, as time passes by, the sands (bonds broken? past forgotten?) keep trickling out - as she stood helpless... helpless to stop the inevitable.

It was never hers to begin with.