photo: sunrise (late to zero period CS) in Arcadia, CA

I wonder how the houseplants feel about dust
Caked in skin like a teenage girl’s first face of make-up.

I wonder how much dust we collect when we sleep,
And if our eyelids crave it every night.

My sister is lying next to me and I don’t kick her out,
And in the morning they will look at me with confused faces at the miracle.

She’s still small, yet so much bigger than she was before.
Growing is an odd thing, so easily mourned.