Seasonal Mapping

I stepped out of the shower and saw the mark,

a sharp, white boundary on my upper arm.

It looks like a bandage applied in the dark

to protect the skin from any further harm.

On one side, the brown of a week in the sun,

of pretending I didn't have bills or a boss.

On the other, the pale, translucent run

of a body that’s mostly a quiet, white loss.

There’s a ghost of a watch strap left on my wrist,

a circle of winter that wouldn't go away.

I stand in the steam and I try to resist

the urge to scrub the color off today.

It’s a map of where I was, or where I’m not.

I pull my t-shirt down to cover the line.

I’m back in the cold, and I’ve already forgot

how it felt to have nothing but time.