Residue

I peeled it back in the bathroom's flat light —

that slow drag, adhesive releasing

by degrees. The skin went pale, then white-

ish, then flushed back. The shower running. Steam increasing

at the mirror. Half-awake. The strip

went in the trash. Then: the shape.

A pink rectangle, faint. The grip

of residue still at the tape's

edge. I stood there. The outline of

a covering. The mark of where a thing

had been. Not a wound. Not enough

of anything to name. The slow offering

of steam. The mirror fogged. The tile cold.

The shape of what was kept. Still tacky. Old.