Dust

I am but the dust,

That collects upon the bottom of a shoe,

Turning the white slowly to gray.

Collecting in the wind,

Stopping for a short rest on a cornea.

I am the sliver in a tired hand,

The one the needle attempts to retract

You remove a small bit,

While lodging the better piece of me deeper.

O begin to fester,

Like the dust within your eye.

I am but the old friend,

In that faded picture

That you hide within the pages of a book,

On your bedside table.

Like the sliver,

I don’t belong inside you anymore.

You try to breathe me out,

Taking long, slow exhales

To escape the inconvenience of not knowing,

When I will turn up again.

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