Today I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window at the bird feeder and I leaned forward enough so that my forehead lightly touched the glass.
I saw my breath fog the glass so I stepped back to avoid making a mess, watching the frosted moisture recede like a bulls-eye getting further and further away
and I sighed with relief, I don't know why, until I noticed my forehead
my body, had left a mark of its own.

I stared at the little greasy patch until I was compelled to bring my hand to my forehead, which was dry, or maybe felt that way because it matched the moisture of my hand,
but either way I didn't believe the mark on the glass even as I examined it, smudged it with my thumb.

And then I thought of finding my hair woven in the fibers of the sofa, in my cup of coffee, laced between the e and the f on the keyboard.
I thought of how each time I take a shower, before shutting off the water the last thing I do is to run my fingers through my hair,
and collect all the ones that have detached themselves from my hot scalp.
Sometimes I come away with one or two but often my hand is webbed with them and I collect them on the wall  where they stick so nicely because they are wet.
Looking at the coils of hair, bark and honey colored on the white tile
I imagine how many have escaped down the drain into the collective waste
where they will degrade in however many decades.