Marks of the Unseen Writer

Gray stains map the curve between thumb and wrist,

a secret signature left behind by late-night words.

The pencil drags, smudging thoughts into skin,

tracing the hard edges of sentences unfinished.

I wash my hands, but the line remains,

a stubborn ghost of what I’ve left on the page,

not ink, but dust—quiet and persistent.

This mark, a faint reminder

that the story lives in the scratches and the smears,

in the clumsy act of making meaning,

one gray streak at a time.