Marks on Slate

Chalk scratches deep across black slate,

a thick white line, rough and uneven.

Dust hovers, falls like forgotten sighs,

settling soft like unspoken words.

This surface carries weight—

the weight of all the stories erased,

and all the lines that never quite connect.

A scratch, a smear, a mark that lingers,

like memory caught in fragile dust.

I trace the jagged path again,

a map without direction,

a trace that holds

more than I’m willing to say.