Touch Left Behind

The mirror steamed with morning breath,

my face a ghost beneath the glass.

A blurry print, a sudden theft

of solitude that wouldn’t pass.

A half-pressed thumb, too wide, too raw,

caught finger trails I did not make.

An alien trace, an unseen law,

a mark that trembled as I’d shake.

The glass, it held a whispered shout,

a story not my own to tell.

A secret touch I can’t erase,

a question written in the smudge’s swell.

The morning’s calm disturbed, undone,

a ghost of hands I never knew.

That fingerprint, a silent run,

haunts quiet moments breaking through.