The Mark Left

I left it there.

My hand in dust,

five fingers and a palm,

a map of myself

on a shelf I don't use.

Hours passed.

I didn't wipe it away.

It's strange to see your own shape

where you're not,

the outline of your grip

on something

that doesn't need gripping,

your print

pressed into nothing

that matters.

But it mattered to me,

the evidence that I had been here,

that I'd touched this space,

that I was real enough

to leave a mark,

even if the mark was just

dust

disturbed.

I finally brushed it away today.

My hand disappeared.

I'm not sure why I waited so long

to erase myself.