Palm's Mark

The meeting droned, a low hum.

He drew on the pad, not looking up.

Just the scrape, soft against paper,

the lead wearing down to a flat cup

of dark dust. The pure, simple line

it laid, gray against white.

Later, when he stood, a smudge

on his right palm, soft and light.

Just that, the residue of thought,

of an idea half-formed.

A temporary stain, easily wiped,

a small battle weathered, warmed

by the skin. A quiet truth

of how we touch what we create.

Leaving our print, a minor proof,

of something, before it's too late.