Marks of Memory

Pressed against me, that touch, stark and real,

reminders linger like shadows, they conceal.

The thumbprint blooms, a haunting mark—

where fleeting moments danced, turned dark.

Fingers brushing against memory's fray,

exposing wounds, echoing gray.

I catch my breath, the pulse quickens,

a reminder of all that once thickens.

The world spins lighter but here I remain,

a bruise of the past blooms, an unspoken pain.