Dust and Hours

Time settles like dust on forgotten shelves, each grain a moment we didn't notice passing— the ordinary ache of becoming.

We are archaeologists of our own forgetting, brushing away the fine coat from photographs, searching for the person we promised to be.

Even light grows tired of its own brightness, casting long shadows at the edges of things, finding rest in the spaces between words.

What remains is not the grand gesture but the soft accumulation: a single hair caught in a door frame, the exact shade of afternoon in March.