Sill Dust

Another perfect picture, framed in light.

Her dress, a cloud. His hand, so sure.

I trace the dust on the sill, white,

where the chipped paint shows the wood below.

My finger, bare. No ring, no mark,

just skin. A ghost impression there.

A silence settled in the dark,

a kind of quiet I can bear.

This window pane, it holds the glare

of someone else's shining day.

I feel the grit beneath my nail, a prayer

unspoken, fading, turning grey.