The Weight of Dust

A poem

The featured image was created by the author using Canva and Picsart.

I wake
to the grey hum of the city,
its breath against my window
a cold, relentless whisper.
The coffee burns my throat,
its bitterness sharp,
like the truth I swallow each morning,
like the ache that grows beneath my ribs.
I press my fingers into the chipped wood
of the table, feel the grain of years
worn thin by hands too tired to hold
what they once wanted.

I am both heavy and hollow,
each breath a fragile contract
with this world —
a world that forgets my name.