The line is almost gone

The line is almost gone,

but I can still see it,

the pale stripe that was drawn

by my shoulder, the regret

of the sun,

of the strap that won

protection by division,

the choice I didn't make

to be marked by this vision

of before and after, the break

in my skin

where the light couldn't win.

Summer's leaving.

The tan will fade.

The line's retreating

into the shade

of sameness,

and I'll be blameless,

unmarked, unproven

that I was ever two colors,

that the evidence was woven

into my skin, that the mullers

of time would erase

what was written on my face—

well, my shoulder,

the border

between what the heat could hold

and what was cold,

the memory made flesh,

the proof that will refresh

into nothing.