The Accumulation of Dust

Light collects like dust on windowsills, each particle a moment you forgot to hold. The day bends through glass, reaches the far corner where shadows gather, and suddenly you are older.

Your hands remember things your mind discards— the weight of coffee cups at dawn, the exact curve of a door frame you traced a thousand mornings. These small archaeologies of touch.

Outside, the rain rewrites the street, erasing footprints as they form, as if nothing here was ever meant to stay. Yet the tree root cracks deeper through concrete that promised permanence.

What accumulates is not what we collect but what we release. What remains is not what we hold but what holds us— the gravity of ordinary hours.