kyndallrae

creating me [using words]

Prints

There was a thumbprint
left there,
a miniscule smudge
on a glass of water
perched on her bedside table—
the last thing
her tender worn hands
touched
before she died.
Her bed now empty
but no one moved
the glass,
afraid to remove
this residue of her life.
She left fingerprints too
—that last day
and also before—
all over my face,
my hands and my heart.
Her life seemed so small,
The world never knew she was here.
But if you dusted me for prints
you’d find she broke into my soul
and stole
nothing but my awe.

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One thought on “Prints

  1. Wow. What a powerful poem. Thank you.

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