I used to think I could catch dust motes
with my bare hands.

I would dance around in the sunbeams of my childhood,
watching my hands whip through the slow
drifting constellations of dead skin.

I swore, if I just moved fast enough,
I could cup the colorless specks in my hands.

You were never really mine,
I just thought I held you in a sunlit moment.

T.11.I