Dust.

There is a layer of dust that covers the objects scattered across the desk in my room. I know the dust. I have seen it before. It is your dust.

The dust of your skin as it contorts and tightens to escape your body. That cream keeps it at bay once applied. I feel for you. I wish I could touch, hold and caress to make better what seems so painful. It seems doomed though. Doomed to shed itself from your body and lay a thin veil over the tops of everything in the room. Doomed to its fate.

The layer of dust in my room and the remnants from the night out we had the other day feel so weighted to their positions. I feel the need to let them remain. Hold themselves stuck in place to create history. A history of you and I.  I will clear up though. But the dust will stay for a while. We made memories dood. Objects can only serve as a prod to evoke that memory. I shall remember and smile. Yes. That is what I will do dood.