My palm holds the traces faint lines of gray

My palm holds the traces, faint lines of gray,

a smudge of graphite where thoughts like to play.

each curve is a whisper, a memory fray,

a testament scrawled in the light of the day.

In cafes, I scribble, ideas tumble forth,

a rush of emotion, of longing, of worth.

the left hand still drags, like an anchor of mirth,

leaving its mark, like a compass to earth.

These markings remind me of battles, of cries,

of late nights spent pondering dreams in disguise.

every smear tells a story, a truth that implies,

I’m never just ink; I am all that I try.