[i am the dust between his fingertips]

i am the dust between his fingertips:
fine, but somehow irritating
the film he notices on everything
but wipes off his plate;
faceless

sinking into cracked floors and
leather creases,
around the folds of an eyelid
and lost in a flood of tears
down one solemn cheek

i am the collection of all that is right
but can't be bothered with
wrists bound to convention,
mouth duck-taped and the muffle
of all the wrong words

there is a narrow space
between book pages
where i collect, waiting
[with upcast eyes]
for him to turn me over