If I let you in please don't unsettle the dust. I have gotten used to it now. It's a part of me. The sunlight makes it sparkle. The breeze tries hard to move it. It's there, comfortable. Let it be. And if you want to be a part of me, accept the dust as me.
The right person won’t arrive carrying a broom. They’ll sit beside you long enough to see that what looks like dust to others is simply the history that made you who you are. Sometimes the dust isn’t neglect. It’s evidence that a soul has survived enough to stop apologising for its history.
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