Imprints That Linger

The mug sits chipped,

a ring of teeth glazed into its rim,

a careless bite that left the rim undone.

I scrub and scrub but the mark stays stubborn,

like a ghost hovering on porcelain,

telling stories I don’t want to hear.

It tastes like someone else’s impatience,

the dull clack of careless mornings,

a presence that won’t wash away,

lingering like a bruise on memory.