What the sun marks that we don't

My friend asked where I'd been

when she saw the burn,

and I couldn't answer—

couldn't point to the day,

the hour,

the moment

when I stopped paying attention

to my own skin.

The sun knew.

The sun kept track

with precision

I would never have,

drawing a line

so exact

it looks like intention,

like I planned

to be half-burned,

half-tan,

like I meant

to be marked

this way.

The red is fading now,

peeling at the edges,

revealing the skin underneath

that should have been

paying attention

but wasn't.

There's a line on my shoulder

where my tank top was.

A line on my arm

where I rested it.

A line on my chest

where the sun found

the opening

and didn't ask

if I was ready.

I wasn't ready.

But the sun doesn't wait.

It just marks

what's exposed,

what's careless,

what's forgotten.

In a week

the burn will be tan,

and the tan will fade,

and I'll stop noticing

what the sun wrote

on my skin.

But for now

the line remains,

and I'm standing

in front of the mirror

reading what time

has drawn on me,

what I did

by not doing

anything at all.