Thumb Smudge

Dust motes in the drawer light,

a scent of old paper,

dried-out rubber bands.

And then, against the wood,

that stub.

So short, the wood almost gone,

just a sliver of yellow paint

clinging to the cool, gray core.

Its tip, a flat, silvery plane,

worn smooth by someone's thumb.

I rolled it between my fingers.

The dark, slick feel of it.

When I pulled my hand away,

a faint sheen, a shadow

of black, on my skin.

Just a mark.

Like a thought started,

never quite finished.