When I look closely enough
The skin on my arm looks like brush strokes.

The pale material pulled over my outstretched inner elbow
Is a careful collage of colors on a warped canvas.

A blue line cuts through the center
Disrupting the creases of white.

One freckle, way to the right
Is the result of carelessly cleaned brushes.

I turn my arm so that my palm is facing the sun
And the strokes shift, straighter.
And the light reflects, brighter.
And the creases that are still creases attempt to smoothen themselves out.