Smudged Traces

A finger drags down

bus shelter glass,

leaving wet streaks

in the tired city light.

Loops and whorls pressed into grime,

a fossil of passing hands,

a silent map traced

by strangers who won’t look back.

The glass catches the dusk,

smears dirt with skin oils,

a smudge that flickers

before it fades away.

Each print a breath held,

a moment marked and lost,

a trace that never stays.