Future dust

The plans we make
the pictures we take
of buildings once so proud and splendid
of civilizations ground to rust,
these foolish hearts
that still beat, hoping to meet
the one that really counts
the one that really matters
before we fall and shatter
like fragile glass
that will eventually pale,
your dreams won’t fail
despite all this,
caught on a cool breeze
and carried far,
a summer’s afternoon
the touch of your finger tips on mine
the cruel march of time,
that steals this moment away
for storage on a cold day
when the only person you loved has left
and you are just future dust.

(I have sporodic bursts of writing, I know I have issues with style and flow, but I just like the feeling of writing something down, and if someone else like it then that's a bonus - this is something I wrote yesterday)