Skin Deep, Then Not
by lumalor
· 28/04/2026
Published 28/04/2026 18:49
The bus window, smeared with rain,
turned my reflection to a ghost.
And there, the fading ink again,
a shadow where the lines were most
defined.
The dragon's eye, once keen and bright,
now just a smudge of indigo, green.
Like a bruised fruit in the weak light,
a memory of what had been.
I thought it meant forever, then.
A mark against the turning tide.
Now it's a whisper, not a amen.
Just skin, remembering how it tried
to hold a feeling fast.
An old stamp, blurred, on paper thin.
It doesn't scream.
It just gives in.