Suspended

The room breathes dust where sun leans through the window, each mote a small witness to the hours passing.

They drift without purpose, these specks of nothing, yet catch the amber light like constellations fallen into domestic rooms.

I am not watching anymore. The dust is watching me— remembering the skin cells I shed like slow snow, the fibers I leave behind, my own decay made visible, made holy by a shaft of light.

Everything dissolves and rises again, suspended in that golden angle where time forgets to move.