Marked Silence

Steam cloaked the kitchen, blurring the street beyond.

A smudge caught my eye—a handprint, half-formed and trembling.

Fingers pressed to the cold pane, wet and soft,

a question scratched in condensation.

I scrubbed the dishes slow, watching the blurred mark hold tight

against the fading light,

a child’s hand, or maybe a ghost’s,

etching a silence I couldn’t fill.

The glass held that silent print, stubborn as a bruise,

reminding me the world touches without asking,

and leaves its cold shape where you least expect.

I reached to wipe it away,

but the shape stayed, smudged and real,

like something unfinished

waiting behind the fog.