Fingerprints

Sometimes you make connections,

In passing cars,

in moving past

Or walking by.

You lock eyes for a moment and you feel a bit of their existence.

You wonder if their soul is full or drained of life.

You feel their life slip through your fingertips

fragments of their reality

like grains of sand

until all that's left

is one tiny piece of quartz

on the grove of your fingertips,

fingerprints,

Your identity in wavy lines.

That tiny grain leaves minuscule indentations,

a brief reminder of the life you witnessed

in a fleeting moment.

One of thousands,

One of millions.

Stardust to sand.