Marks

I swear the prints on the ends of my fingers
are not mine but another's indelible marks.
I feel them like bruises or scars from a burn
or warm kisses on cold, pimpled skin.

These fingerprints make a canvas of me.
My body is smothered in their tiny ruin
tired eyes gently etched, carved in lines.
Callouses where love has worked at me.

There are marks all over the house at night
climbing the walls and the paper trees.
On the book by my bedside I can't bear to read.
The window where moonlit clouds are framed.

The songs in my head and my playlists
were left by a thief who got clean away.
They go off like bombs and shatter my insides
and when the dust settles, her prints will remain.