Ghosts of Touch

I found an old notebook, crinkled and torn,

each mark like a memory, each smudge I’d worn.

Searching for ink, I found something more—

a fingerprint lingering, smearing my score.

A trace of existence, a life once so clear,

now faded like dreams that slip further near.

What once felt so vibrant now blurs with despair,

a shadow of touch, still heavy in air.