The hallway wall is painted white

The hallway wall is painted white,

a flat and eggshell kind of light.

But where the corner meets the door,

I’ve touched the plaster, ten years or more.

Each morning when I head to eat,

my palm performs a silent feat.

I pivot there and leave a trace,

a ghost of grease upon the face.

The sun came through the window pane

and showed the polished, human stain.

The paint is smooth, the color deep,

a secret that the shadows keep.