Literature
Grasping at Stars
Space dust isn't just here, Space dust is beneath us Above us Around us, we breathe it in We huff it upon our pillows We are it Enclosed in letters are little bits of us, pieces of our skin, essences of our oils We leave bits of ourselves on the pages of books soaked up by hungry pages which gulp greedily bit by bit Some part of us remains, bones in a box oils on a page, hairs in a ribbon We are bits of ourselves, and in those bits is some piece of us left behind A number, a license plate, a name A signiture within a book with a date and a love letter old vintage stamps and cards swathed with DNA it's everywhere, in everything we touch a little bit of our minds.