At first you were only breezing across my surfaces

leaving a short film

a subtle tap on the shoulder memory.

I brushed you off each evening

and then I noticed you were burrowing

like a fish hook in my skin

and my heart should have sped up in fright but instead it beat out a languid N’awlins jazz lick. 

And then I noticed you were spreading and coating me like coconut lotion

the plastic bottle pliant from the sun

and the heat I was storing was 


The songs that I carried in my head were sung for an audience of one

and if the notes I was trying to hold were crackled and sharp as vinegar

you still listened and maybe that smoothed the edges,

sweetened the backnotes

because in the end

I only sang for you.

You were in the all of me and in the crooks and crannies 

filling out and rounding the corners and then 

the lights changed and the songs changed and one chair got taken away…

You burst out of me like star dust escaping a doomed sun.

I felt you go,

and tried to catch and keep some of it,

tried to hold the magic.

It sparkled in my hands for a moment

and then it was just 


leaving only grit

 and becoming just the stuff you sweep up.

I can’t remember the lyrics anymore and the heat is almost spent

but I think I will just sit here and wait

for the music 

and the magic 

to reappear.

For that brush, that breeze, that tap on the shoulder.

Or for the dust to find 

and reclaim me.




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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5 Responses to Dust

  1. Vetti says:

    Omg this is amazing. Can’t begin to tell you why. Thank you so much…

  2. Terry Cross says:

    wow Jaye… you simply amaze

  3. ailsacawley says:

    Absolutely wonderful hits so deep 😥

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