Walls with Secrets

Fingertips sketch ghosts on cold steel,

a silent code that no one can feel.

Patterns drawn in absent light,

a rhythm soft, a quiet fight.

Pressed smudges bloom where no one sees,

tracing lines like whispered pleas.

Alone, the cabin hums and waits,

while fingers map out fates.

The elevator lurches slow,

its belly closed, no one to show.

So I write with fingertips, alone,

in walls that swallow every tone.