Mark Owen Martin
Musical montage ==> Ache
Response
Amy Moffit
Inspiration piece
No matter how many times I wipe it away
the dust still returns…
dancing down through the air,
swirling sunstruck past morning windows
and settling silently on windowsills
and tables, in corners, on chairs.
Dust is the past. It’s dead skin,
tiny bits of frayed thread, flying pet fur,
brittle edges of moth wings…
the air I breathed as I walked up the steps
and out as I walked through the door.
Every minute that passes is time gone to ashes.
What is the meaning of these days
stretched out behind us like trails of smoke?
What do they mean? Are we still strangers?
Do you know what I’m thinking?
How long has it been since
either one of us really looked at the stars?
Weeks and months lie behind us,
tire tracks in the rain, instantly invisible.
I keep having a dream that we’re alone in a car
on a highway at 60 MPH and nobody’s driving.
You’re staring out and the window, acting like I’m not there.
We sit together silent, as the dust settles between us.
.
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