to dust

there is a fine layer of dust

coating everything

when i wake up

the keys of my laptop

the sketch on my table

my open journal pages —

i have to brush them clean before writing

or else i can feel the grit

under my fingers, beneath the pen —

there are traces of it on my bedcovers

it coats my lungs

the inside of my throat

as if a reminder that already

i am dust

and to dust i shall return