Dust on the Gown

His body sticks to the sky.

Birds drift. Clouds crawl.

Light slips from his eyes.

Darkness rests on his lap.

He stares at the window.

It stares back.

It studies the sweat in his palm

pressed against the glass.

Soon

the glass fogs.

Now the window

is his sweat.

It stays.

After a while,

a pale yellow leaf

falls against the window,

sticking to the sweat on the glass.

I watch him.

He lies on a torn bed,

breathing brown dust. 

A white gown clings

to the corner wall—

like it owes him

something unpaid.

It trembles slightly.

I drift away.

He stands before the white gown

and utters:

“Once,

my whispers were stored in you

like the room stored me.”

Now you remain—

a thin brown dust

settled

on your own gown.

The gown is dust.

Let it settle.

He opens the window.

His heart slams against his ribs—

not to get out,

but to keep time.