The Marks We Leave Behind

Dark smudges streak my palm, a tell-tale sign,

as I wrestle with thoughts, thoughts that intertwine.

The paper slick beneath my awkward grasp,

words spill like ink from an unsteady clasp.

Left-handed struggles, a dance with the page,

a graphite smudge, a marker of wage.

In the corners of sentences, my fingers embrace,

tracing the outlines of each tangled space.