Imprints of Our Choices

The coffee spills; it splatters the cream,

a reminder—some stains won’t go away.

Watched my friend scrub, drowning in steam,

each stroke a ghost of decisions we play.

Each futile attempt digs deeper, I see,

frayed edges of life on the tablecloth’s thread.

A mark so stubborn, it clings to me,

a burn on my heart, a worry unsaid.

We laugh at the mess, yet it stays with us,

clinging to moments like burdens to bear.

How can something sweet turn so corrosive,

when all we want is a life that feels fair?