The stubborn stain

The coffee spilled—a careless arc,

a dark brown ring soaked into the grain.

I scrubbed with everything—cloth, soap, patience—

but the mark stays, curling its edges,

a slow, stubborn bruise beneath my hands.

It sits there every morning,

a quiet accusation on the countertop,

a reminder of hasty moments,

of cups tipped too quick,

of mornings lost before they began.

No bleach, no grit could fade the trace,

just a secret soaked deep in the wood,

a shadow of a careless stain

that won't come out, no matter how I try.