Left Hand's Mark

Hours spent, words down,

the pad beside me, stacked.

Then I saw it, the usual pact,

a silver-gray stain, a dusty crown.

On the edge of my pinky, where it drags,

a faint sheen, a ghost that won't give up.

From every note, every coffee cup

held just so, the memory it snags.

A lifelong shadow, not quite clean,

a constant reminder, soft and dark.

The left hand's mark,

where thoughts have been.