Dusty Shelves

I carry dust in my veins,
A certain stillness remaining from it all.
I carry dust and blood and tears and stars,
The chair I sit in has not changed,
The room I sit in has not changed.

We take what we love inside to carry with us,
But my body feels forgotten,
And I am filled to the brim with emptiness.
A tangible nothing settling in my bones,
Hollowing the marrow from my arms and legs.

In the way that old stores in small towns creak,
When you walk across the floors,
My body trembles at every concept that unsettles dust
From the windows of my mind, particles floating,
Visible in the sunlight pouring in through the old jalousie.

And yet all I can do is wait again for it to settle,
For it to gather and pile on shelves and tables,
For it to blanket the floors once more.
May the dust fall back down, may it rest;
The undisturbed grave sites, infinitely forgotten.

I am motionless, my body and soul are indelibly still.
The fetters that bind me are all too familiar.
We take what we love to carry within,
But what we love is only what we know.
And I know dust, settled, a bloodless life.

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