Life’s dust

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
replace the present patina of regret.
The truth is (and I still believe in truth!)
that my long dry season has caused life’s
dust to bloom everywhere; I can still
ignore it on my outer surfaces, but I worry
that deep inside—in belly’s churning bowl, in 
each lung-pumped puff of breath, or like
a light shroud on my hopeless heart—lies
that same dust of life, covering, contaminating all…
and why do I feel that there is someone, 
somewhere, who can wash me with a single
tear or breathe sharply on me the gust 
that will blow me back to love and wonder—
and life without dust?