i have stopped scrubbing the glass
every spot tells a small story
the marks water leaves behind linger
once i wished them to vanish unseen
proof isn’t always in the clarity
sometimes it is in the leftover haze
a smudge that whispers of hands held
a faint line speaking of what burned
you call the mess unkempt and careless
i call it the memory of my living
to erase the stains feels like forgetting
to leave them is a prayer for permanence
what is left behind is not shameful
what remains is evidence of the fire
even in silence the watermarks speak
even in the break something blossoms