What Writes Itself

The pencil breaks. Graphite falls like snow,

tiny proof I pressed hard and let go.

My thumb is smudged gray-black,

a small stain I can't take back.

Six months of typing, notes in Arial,

never this: the hand's own trial

of dust and mark on fabric black,

evidence I can't undo, take back.

The pencil is dull. The stain remains.

Proof that I still leave stains,

that my hand still makes something happen,

still presses hard enough to happen.