Smudges,
from the time I pressed my nose to my window
looking at the world outside of me.
Paint,
from the time I decided to use it, and failed at best.
Dust,
from all the times I neglected to clean.
Stains,
from everyday of spilling of coffee on everything possible.
Scars,
from the time I broke my heart and it never quite healed.
I really identified with this poem. You have captured the reality of living and all the little ways life leaves clues of our existence, and our experiences. Do you have a title in mind?
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