Dust on the Tile

White powder snowed

across the grimy floor tiles,

a quiet rebellion beneath the sink.

It settled in corners,

stubborn as the stain I can’t scrub off,

a ghost of old cleaning promises.

Borax dust, spilling fast,

like a secret slipped from my grip,

filling the space where patience cracked.

And I watch it lie there,

cold, fine, ignoring the mess,

a silent protest

on cracked ceramic skin.