Dust Is Just Dead Voices

Our voices

Just as we left them

Aged a bit

Nearly take up a whole corner

By the bed

Where my old poems

Still sit on a Cherrywood desk

Still folded


A promise held

To the blotter

As the desk throws

Its shade about the floor

Still shines like

A pile of coins in the sun

Splayed within an

Old handprint

Still warm


A sun that still

Scatters our dead voices

In a shaft of light

My fingers trailing lines

Through the particles

Of what we had once said

When we were still young

Still in love


When our voices still lived.


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