Surface Tension

The sun leans hard against the sliding door

revealing every secret the glass tried to keep.

I thought I’d scrubbed the memory of the floor,

but the oil of your hand is anchored deep.

A thumbprint sits near the handle’s edge,

cloudy and stubborn, trapped on the outer pane.

I can’t reach it from this side of the ledge,

and it’s too high up to be washed away by rain.

It’s just a residue of where you stood,

a map of a pressure that isn't here.

I’d break the whole seal if I thought I could

stop looking at the ghost of you every year.