The Smear

Tucked behind old sketch pads,

a stub of black.

My fingers brushed its side,

leaving a gritty track.

It smears so easily,

this dust of burnt wood.

A faint, dry scent that clings,

misunderstood.

I rub my thumb and forefinger,

watching the dark spread.

It’s not a perfect line,

more like a thought unsaid.

It settles on the skin,

a transient stain,

like memory, like rain

that falls and falls again.