I have a little shadow
on my fingertips, it lies
in wait, in touch
secretly it spies
And when I brush against you
to leave a bit behind
on sleeve, or skin
or maybe near your mind
I rarely think ahead
of futures to be spun
for love, for joy
or what will come undone
And no matter how I try
to wipe the shadow clean
it grows, it grows
that's just how it's always been.
A poetry prompt from Carry On Tuesday
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