When you came out of me, your eyes were black and hidden. You smelled like you felt: a softness under the hand. So soft, it seemed wrong to touch you, profane even. And that smell, was the smell of my womb, the place you came from, the place you were before I met you.

Every time I touched you, I left a print on your perfect skin, just as every time I smelled you and looked at you. A little print. Until one day, I was looking through layers of hand prints and smudges and stains and scars. You began to smell like milk, sweet and unpunishing.

All the inky smears and soot from passing cars, all the lesions and nicks, a cakey buildup of time; that is who you became. That is how you transitioned from being a tiny piece of god- flecked off from some divine orbit and into my body- to a human. One mark at a time.

This world is full of mark makers collectively imprinting themselves on one another.