Objects of Dust

A watch face yellowed at the edges, its hands stopped at a quarter past, marks the hour nothing remembers.

Behind the dresser, a ticket stub curls like a dried leaf—the film we cannot recall, only the feeling of your shoulder against the dark.

The envelope holds no letter, just the creases of someone's grip, the weight of paper saying goodbye in a language we no longer speak.

Each object is a bridge collapsing as we cross it, leaving only the dust of what we carried, the imprint of our careful hands on things that will outlast the wanting.