Ghost Stripe

The steam rising, just me.

Stepped out, water beading on skin.

Caught it in the mirror, barely there.

A pale subtraction on my shoulder,

where the strap had been, all summer long.

Now, fading. Like a memory

that softens at the edges.

Not quite gone, but losing definition.

Against the skin that’s also fading,

back to winter's neutral, indoor shade.

Just a faint line, saying

this was once a brighter place.

And the light was on me then.