The dust on the table
is a city I never built,
a congregation of atoms
who gather, silently.
Each speck, a fragment of yesterday—
a breath, a word,
a trace of someone’s hands,
but no one remembers.
I could wipe it clean,
reset the world
with a cloth and a sigh,
but would I not erase myself,
the ghosts of my fingertips,
the history of idle moments
spent in between?
So, the dust remains,
tiny rebellions in its stillness.
quiet disconnection 