Dusting
No hope.
Not even on birthdays or Christmas.
Opening presents, and smiling,
Exclaiming in joy, only to never speak of it again.
Then the next day is normal.
Just doing things that I am told are what we are meant to do in this life.
Like dusting around the house.
And breathing in the dust which is dry and rotting.
Just rotting, and rotting gracefully.
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