The Geometry of Dust

Light fractures through the slatted blind, a sharp diagonal cutting across the floorboards. Within its beam, a slow suspension— motes dancing in an unchoreographed drift, the silent debris of our breathing.

We shed ourselves invisibly, leaving invisible maps on the upholstery, a dusting of cells on the spines of read books. This is the architecture of lingering, how a room remembers long after the door clicks shut.

Hold out your hand and catch nothing. Yet the weight of yesterday settles softly, a gray velvet accumulating in corners, the quietest snow falling inward, burying the sharp edges of the present.