They are the only ones who make marks. I am the only one who sees them. Two grimy hands with stubby and fat fingers. Two prints that do not belong but are here. Two that always appear on the wall. From my room, I can hear him placing them there and not appreciating the paint.
Their strength is impeccable. They spread their dirt onto the wall. He grows up and they don’t stop. Now the sweat seeps into the paint and trickles down the wall. This is how it keeps.
I forget their reason for being and they drip like fresh paint on a sign, each one combining with another. Keep, keep, keep they say when I clean. They hold.
When I am too tired they keep keeping. When I am a brush against thousands of prints then I just look at the prints. When there is nothing left to look at on the wall. Two who multiply despite my brush. Two who reach the end of the wall and do not stop. Two whose only reason is to be and be.