When you go inside a room that has been empty for a while, you can see the little clouds of dust float and shine as the light touches them. And for a long time you'll watch it drizzle down like an ethereal rain.

Maybe you'll stop moving, or cover your mouth, or maybe you'll stare at it too long it begins to look like stars in the night sky. And you'll wait for it to settle again just so it can come undone in your hands. Jumping around to unsettle it, but it'll never really be the same as the first time you saw it.

That's how you felt to me. I was the unsettled clouds of dust. And you looked at me like you couldn't believe your eyes. But that ethereal light is temporary, and once it washes away and I move away from the light, you'll begin to see me for what I am—nothing but unimportant little clouds of unsettled dust.

You're going to jump around to see me suspended in mid-air, to see me shrouded by light like an ethereal being, to look at me like I'm a starry night sky. But what happens once everything settles down and I'm where I used to be?

You can't jump around forever and I can't stay afloat forever.