Dust

She was so magnetic that even the dust was attracted to her.

Anything that felt lost, or too small for the space it occupied, if it floated meaninglessly through the air, it clung to her for direction.

And when she got home, it would spring off of her shoes, like once they reached their destination, they too, had finally found where they were supposed to be, free.

And even as she shuffled across the floor towards bed, she would make its bunnies tango across the floor with new life, dancing to the soft tone of her words as she whispered, “I love you.”

Though it only ran in circles, it would fall off the ceiling fan throughout the night as the walls rumbled with the sound of the train barreling out of town, and only the moonlight illuminated it as it too, as it fell freely, it too, was softly pulled into her body.

Yet, as she laid on my arm, marked with this single word, as she exhales, she reminds me that I am only dust, too.