The Slow Waltzing Dust

A single beam fractures the heavy air, spilling gold across the floorboards. Within it, a million galaxies spin, silent and unhurried.

We breathe them in, these forgotten fragments, ash of stars and sloughed-off skin, the quiet detritus of simply being, caught in a temporary grace.

Outside, the city hums its frantic rhythm, ignorant of the slow waltz happening here. But in this slant of light, time thickens, and every floating speck becomes a sun.