The Arithmetic of Dust

The light collects in corners— small geometries of dust suspended, each particle a quiet calendar.

I count them like prayer beads the way they drift, then settle, only to rise again when air remembers it has names.

A lifetime in the angles where two walls refuse to meet, where nothing is quite clean and nothing quite destroyed.

Time doesn't move forward here. It accumulates. It gathers weight in textures we mistake for stillness, in all the things we leave behind without meaning to keep them.

Watch how the sun finds them— these invisible inhabitants, proof that even emptiness contains multitudes.