Smudges

The light slanted across the table,

catching the faint, oily maps.

Where hands rested, absent now,

leaving their ghost-imprint.

A smudge where a drink sat too long,

a smear from a hurried gesture.

These marks, imperfect and small,

tell of a presence, brief.

I wipe them away with a cloth,

but the glass feels different.

Holding the shape of what was there,

a trace that lingers, then is gone.