The Accidental Ink, Or, The Grey Ghost

The pencil point, it scraped and flew,

across the page, as pencils do.

Left-handed, always, a slow smear

built into the process, held dear

or cursed, depending on the day.

I lifted my hand. And there it lay.

The grey crescent, a dirty moon,

on my pinky-side. Too soon

to be gone. I rubbed it, but it held.

Like a tattoo, something foretold.

Gritty, soft. A little stain

of effort, a quiet, stubborn pain.

Proof I was here, proof I had worked.

My hand, a canvas, strangely marked.

It makes me think of all the lines

I've left behind. The strange designs.