I am nothing.
Like dust behind a clock, as resentful as unwatered plants.
I am a buzz, never a knock.
No one notices when I am gone, unpaused by my absence.
I am but a splinter in a fence; a particle of a fragment.
I am invisible.
Not because I am transparent, but because they refuse to see me.
It’s easier to disregard my presence so I let them make me teeny.