There are
coffee rings
on the table
from mornings
I barely remember.
Little brown moons
marking
where I sat
while life
kept happening.
One beside
a grocery list.
One over
an old appointment.
One staining
the corner
of a poem
I never finished.
I should
wipe them away.
Probably.
But I like
the evidence.
Proof
that I was here.
That on some
ordinary morning
I made coffee
and sat down
long enough
to leave
a circle behind.
We save
the big things.
Birthdays.
Photographs.
Hospital bracelets.
Love letters.
But a life
is mostly
small stains.
Crumbs
under the toaster.
A mug
forgotten
beside a notebook.
The same chair
pulled out
every morning.
Maybe
ordinary things
deserve archives too.
So I leave
one coffee ring
for later.
A tiny,
accidental signature:
I lived here.
I was tired.
I kept going.
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