Smudge Pattern

Cleaning the sliding door, a chore, a drag.

Then the sun hit it just so, and the light snagged

on the greasy whorls, a faint, human map.

Every touch, a story, caught in a trap.

There's mine, the one from yesterday,

reaching for the latch, to chase the day.

And then this other, smaller, higher print,

a child's memory, a quick, faint hint

of someone who was here, who pressed their face

against the cold pane, leaving a trace.

They come and go, these phantom guests,

leaving their little, smudged requests

on glass, on chrome, on every surface clean.

A testament to what has been.

And I wipe them off, a patient, careful hand,

but for a second, I almost understand.