The strange familiarity of a print

A smear of oily ridges,

blurring at the edges.

I traced the swirl, the loop,

a pattern carved like a map

no one else could read.

It was mine,

though it felt strange,

alien,

as if I’d forgotten my own shape.

A mark left on cracked glass,

a silent signature

that said, I was here,

but not quite myself,

not this morning.