I have begun to gather life’s dust:
it’s not really visible, yet, but I can
feel it when I touch myself—the texture
of my flesh’s longing is somehow altered,
occluded by a granular sensation, the 
dry grit of all the years of frustration;
it is not yet enough to chafe and make me sore
but a small discomfort nags each time I
(or some patient, habitual lover) run(s)
a hopeful finger over back or chest or thigh…
I still think it best to ignore such evidence,
to let clear memories of times long before