Dusted

The fine particulate that

covered Miss Havisham’s

wedding feast table.

The microscopic remains

of skin, hair and the

remnants of a forming

cosmos.

A light layer of us and

others floating through

the air and settling on

dressers and end tables,

desks and TV screens,

on the unused items

of our lives.

It covers everything and

reminds me that everything

is everything, and everything is

made of the same basic

materials.   

The dust is me.

The dust is you.

There’s always more of

it than you realize. A day

spent dusting and cleaning

is so quickly forgotten as new

levels of dust immediately

start to settle over the contents

of our lives.

It’s grit, it’s dirt, it’s grime,

it’s all the same and will

rapidly build on inactivity and

idleness.

It builds on memories.

It builds on lost hopes.

It builds on me,

collecting ever so slightly,

over time,

until the weight is colossal

and pushes me down.

I need a good and

proper dusting from

caring hands and

adoring eyes to find

the luster under the

ever finer particles

of everyone.