Work Text:
Hand
palm flat
against curved glass.
Sorrow makes you
careless, leaving traces
of your self behind
a manual map
delta fan of skill
captured in translucence.
If reason remained
one of your possessions,
you would
wipe the window down,
leave a mystery
smeared, impenetrable.
But your belongings are meager.
Even this breath
is borrowed.
All you own is will
ill-wrapped,
clutch of memory
tied with fraying string.
You can’t stay,
cannot stay away.
In the morning,
Sam will see
the handprint
on the Impala’s windshield.
wipe it free, wishing
he could bring
clear lines of sight
elsewhere with such ease.
Sam sees the traces,
but only Dean
could read the coordinates.