Pale cells

The sun hits me strong

With no compassion for my shy skin.

My winter shade resists and makes me

a late arrival from the moon.

In this childhood of summer,

My melanin grows.



Your pipettes are still smoking

And your notes on scrap paper

When the holidays arrive.

A feeling of incomplete and guilt descends

While you leave the long concrete corridor.

your mind rushes

to plan and refine elegant experiments

Not to waste time

While your bikini awaits you.

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