Every day a piece of ourselves is lost
when we move a little, shed a little, dust a little.
Dead cells tell a story;
our whole lives could be replayed in the dust that fell
to the floor when I was down cleaning on hands and knees,
and memories of the past came floating back.
From the fight in ’07, when the wind was howling outside,
I thought we’d never see the end of it until you held me close and sighed,
To the day you graduated in ’09, when we drank until we couldn’t see,
and fell home drunk, glad that the silly black flat hat signalled the end of your degree.
Or that time when you dropped the ashtray
and it shattered on the floor, causing the neighbour below
to bang on the ceiling, disturbing the dust some more.
The events of our lives are distributed amongst our possessions
with a fine layer of grey which chronicles the passage of time,
little bits of dust, fragments from a life before.
Dust is where we came from
Dust is what we become
Dust is perhaps where we belong.