Red Handed
by LittleSter

Miry fingerprints engrave
one’s lovely fable.
It burns any thought
of revival by morning.

Smear the past
with your index finger
and soil the best
of our final moments.

For I’ll still see the marks,
they remain in the ashes.

Gloves work wonders,
until stains soak through cotton
and schemes scar your skin.

Clearing your record
is not an option.
I’ve read your palm so many times,
it’s on the back of my hand.