The coffee steam rose sweet and thin

The coffee steam rose, sweet and thin,

curled around my hand as I wiped

the stainless steel. And there,

just for a second, catching the light

like a secret, a perfect, oily swirl.

My own hand's history, in lines

and ridges, a map of skin.

I watched it fade, even as I watched.

The heat, the damp cloth,

already erasing the proof

I was ever here, pressing down,

making a mark.

It was gone before the cloth

reached it again, a ghost already,

a momentary proof of touch

that vanished with the breath.