Skin Deep, Then Not

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.