dust again

She said; dust.
It is dust on picture frames.
And the day cannot slow enough
for me to stop it.
Dust falls on those we love most
in a perfect
amount of nothing
holding
still.
She asks for a damp rag-
not wet,
not dry, and she’ll wipe the thin stuff
up.
And it is like nothing
and everything
you’ve seen
before,
fearing to let your breath
out
while it falls
again.

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