The Weight of Dust

The silence gathers in corners, a soft gray sediment of forgotten hours, coating the edges of picture frames and the spines of unread books.

We breathe it in without knowing, this fine powder of yesterday, settling on the windowsill where the morning light spills like gold.

It speaks of things we left behind, the quiet rustle of shifting air, a memory suspended in a sunbeam, drifting downward, patient and slow.