Dust Particles

by Samuel Mae

Legs ripen Sunday -
energized quantum concepts
–lush, and lost in lyrical litany.

(we crave memories, you and I,
but no longer each other)

Sands sweep south -
The Surge, we’ve named it -
no longer means time,
just a process, a penchant -proclivity.

And yet we never stop walking, slow -
a lovers’ stroll – through
empty endings and postcard pasts.

(lilac petals, dandelion chain, whistling wheat -
only the after-images remain,
imprinted, impassioned, impermeable)

We’re (the fool and fiddler)
both fickle fanciers
wishing for something more
than all that’s left (us).

Entangled (inevitable)
- I need you, still -
sun sets, too bright,
particles in the light;
dust we call them,
though we know better.

(soldering iron, soldiering on,
soliloquy, serenading swans)

Yesterday, I flicked a pebble
across the still water
and watched it die.
But the ripples still live
- just fade to quiet
until they’re stirred again.

Sometimes I hear laughter
and wish it were one of us,
together, now, here, forever.

Samuel Mae writes. Mostly he writes speculative fiction and poetry, but occasionally he veers onto the mainstream highway. He had poetry upcoming in The Terror at Miskatonic Falls Anthology and has fiction upcoming in Issue #21 of the Hugo Award-winning zine Electric Velocipede. For more information, including links to published writing available online, check out his website