Your marks on me,

like smudges on glass,

from a nose and a pair of lips - 

yours pressed to mine.

I wipe at the pane,

and wipe at the pain.

Those smudges remain,

and distort my vision,

rippling under my fingers.

The smudges change,

and thus change how I see.

But though they blur,

I do not wish them gone.

For to a simple lawn,

they add a fantasy,

a blurry prism of green and yellow

rioting against all order.

Your smudges add clarity as they blur the glass.