I adored the very action of blowing dust-motes off a box.

Watch it dance in the distilled air.

I like the sight it presents.
One where the past snaps the silence of today.

Slowly but surely
re-etching how much time has passed
on the corners of my bruised heart.

Once, happiness and sweetness, those dust-motes are just greyed out.

They kiss my cheeks and eyelashes.

I never blew the remnants of time again.