Stale Air

Up above, the fan spins with a languid sigh,

a film of dust dances, caught in my eye.

Motes sparkle like secrets, each one a regret,

hovering still, trapped in a moment unmet.

Afternoon sunlight paints the room dull and gray,

a promise of motion trapped, held at bay.

I wipe at the blades, but they grimly persist,

reminding me always what I’ve let exist.