Dust
It lands like dust,
Covering things forgotten
Or ignored. The things we see
But don’t always notice.
A finger cannot trace a shape
Unseen. A path is always left
In the wake of contact.
There is always something left to wipe away.
Regret is the heaviest thing
To carry around. Its presence makes void
All that is good
Or at least all that could be.
The possibilities are choked
Before they are allowed to breathe.
It is hope that comes in breaths,
Slow and steady, that cleans.
