Grit

Turned the old pack inside out,

to shake the crumbs,

the forgotten wrappers,

a loose button.

And there, at the bottom seam,

a fine, pale dust.

Sand.

Not much,

just enough to feel between

the thumb and finger,

a memory of somewhere else,

a place I haven't been

in months.

It sticks to the synthetic fabric,

microscopic, persistent.

Carried it all this way,

through city streets,

through quiet rooms,

without noticing

the slow accumulation

of tiny worlds.