Gathering Dust

Bare branches sway in the wind of ice and cold.

Snow like tiny bits of wet lace fall from the sky.

I look to see that he is approaching again,

White on his shoulders and sleeves like dust.

His face is serious and so are his hands.

What makes hands serious, I wonder.

But then I remember and I don't have to wonder.

He's filled with nothing; his heart is empty and cold.

He opens his mouth and touches my face with his hands

And his empty words begin to float into the cloudy sky.

I wish I could say his word sparkled like motes of dust,

But as has always happened, they die as they live again.

I sigh and look at the snow again.

The fact that he and I made it this far is a wonder.

This thing between us is tired and old and worn like dust

And there is no warmth left, just cold.

All that once was got stuck long ago in the sky.

It wouldn't stay no matter how tightly we held hands.

As if he is reading my mind, he grabs my hands

And suddenly, we're meeting for the first time again,

Kicked off a horse and suddenly staring at the sky.

He appeared and helped me up, and all I could do was wonder

If he would be the one to protect me from the cold.

Maybe he would clear my heart of dust.

He scrubbed away the rust and blew away the dust

And told me my hands were home to his hands.

Maybe he wasn't always so cold;

Maybe he could be warm once again.

I draw hope from this fact and wonder

If our love can be salvaged from the sky.

He must be thinking the same thing as he points at the sky

Apologizing for keeping me out of the sun and letting me gather dust.

Whether he is serious or not is something I never wonder,

Especially when he kisses me hard, my face in his hands.

A fire burns within my heart again;

Maybe I'm the one who had gone cold.

We're silhouetted against the sky, out in the cold,

And I'm filled with wonder as I look into his eyes again

And know that together, we'll become dust, in death, we'll hold hands.