Dust

What comes after the dust?

she asked in quiet tones

meant to be heard only by herself

What came before has been fulsome

and finite

the facts are known

but not the motives

Each lifetime measured in days

unless you were unlucky

to have died

before you developed memories

or merited photographs

and aching desire

of some One

to taste your essence

Pleasure is so overrated

knowing that you will disappear

the way you came

suddenly, without announcement

Promises peripheral

like the ribbons binding

the presents she forgot to give

The time before the dust

Was it eternity or something less?