I will be dust.
Sand.
Silt.
Fluff.
Forgotten even by the other piles of dust
I once loved, envied, ignored.

I may not last long enough to see starships ply the interstellar deep. I may not get to choose a shiny new android body. I probably won’t be here to enjoy the day they put empathy on the throne at last.

I will be whorls of dust selfishly scooped up by a new body, a new life.
Not my life.
My life will be composed, performed, forgotten.
A handsome journal tossed on a shelf to molder into dust.

Don’t look so glib.
You’ll be dust too.

Still… today is today, one thousand selfish birthdays
before the passing of one thousand heedless solar circles,
wide-eyed and unjudged.

I wonder what our dust will do with this day?