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Fading Tan Lines

It began with conversations;


the kind that arrive unannounced,

spoken by strangers who never meant to stay.

Stories rooted in compassion for the world and its people,

told by some weathered by half a century of living,

and others still learning how to look at society

without flinching.


I moved through crowded streets that never remembered my name,

along beaches where footsteps dissolved behind me.

I swam through salt-thick waters

and crossed quiet bridges of feeling,

traveling not toward a destination

but away from a restlessness I could not name;

hoping meaning might surface long enough

to feel like fulfillment.


Along the way, I met people

who left impressions deeper than time allowed:

untethered connections born of late conversations,

of laughter shared without promises,

brief, radiant, and unrepeatable.


Now, what lingers is what always does;

happiness slipping like sand through open hands,

tan lines fading where the sun once held me.

My eyes remember what my life no longer resembles,

rewinding moments that refuse to stay still,

as I return, breathless and unchanged,

to the quiet discipline of mediocrity;

carrying proof only in what has already begun to disappear.


Pritha Krishna

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