A Teacup Full of Stories

A grain of dust lies heavy in the corner of my eye,

Itself, the echo of a sigh of discontent,

Crystal-form of weariness and secrets lent, for safe-keeping,

To a shadow I met once in a dream,

He will not tell.

Lined hands and tired fingers stretch and rub; dislodged,

My solidity thus falls upon the ground,

And into lethargy

I melt away.