Two Weeks of Dust

The web catches dust like it's intentional.

Like the spider had a plan

for what would stick and when.

Two weeks of particles—

flour, skin, something microscopic

that drifts up from the street below.

Each strand holds them differently.

The corner strand, the one

closest to the window frame,

is almost transparent now.

Thickened. Loaded.

The others stay delicate, visible

only in certain angles of light.

I reach past it to get my mug.

My hand comes close but doesn't touch.

I'm not sure why I'm protecting it.

The spider is gone.

Maybe dead. Maybe moved on to the next corner.

But the web is still here, doing its job

even without a tenant.

The dust won't fall off if I blow on it.

It's bonded. Committed.

What started as accident—

the floating debris of living—

has become the structure.

The web isn't the architecture.

The dust is.

I leave it. Make my coffee.

By noon the light will shift

and I won't be able to see it anymore.

But I'll know it's there.

I'll know it's still catching things.