Dust.

I am dust.

Dust that touches you, late in the lonely night, covers you, rests on your shoulders, tangled in your hair.

Dust that you breathe in, deep and long, without realising it is there.

Dust that sits on your lashes like powder and lines down your throat.

One day you will shake me, I’ll wither and float away and wear thin on your skin. Or perhaps her breath on your hair will disturb me and I’ll be gone.

If only I knew how to hold on.

.

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