The prints you left from stumbling backwards
Are still etched across the smoky pane.
These windows are still foggy from our breath
And laughter: each wrinkle and line
Parted by our carbon dioxide.

Your fingers drip with condensation '
Elongating the contours of your hand.
Fingertips unravel and grow like veins
In a humid climate: thriving in this moisture.
Oil particles cling to the surface,

Adhering to the glass like a shadow secreted from
The soft pads of your fingertips.
The shallow dip of your palm remains black and
Static on the glass, refusing to slip and slide like
The rest of your hand. A stubborn piece

Of evidence, like blood in fibres.
The shimmering outline awaits accentuation
From any incriminating form of hot liquid.
The stain distorts, extends, leaves
Nothing but glass.

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