a dream where u have my number & i know what your bathroom looks like
i reach my hands thru the back tiles of the shower wall,
and with rusty nails pounding thru my palms
like some intro to martyrdom,
i run my fingers thru your hair.
you bend down to touch the floor,
moss & steam rising with a heavy breath,
and time slows to let me count each drop of water
running down your spine. the air
never figured out a way to sit comfortably between us,
so we must mould to it instead. or else we die.
or else we turn the showerhead into a faucet for pain
and a four a.m. trip to the ER. and the last time i went to the ER,
someone died.
sometimes i'll press my hands
against the foggy mirror, just long enough
to make you call and ask do you miss me?
and i tell you yes, yes i do.
tell you:
boy, i hate when i can't just let myself drown—
boiling in my own flesh & bones,
my lungs only ever seem to fill up halfway and then
you pull me out by the roots. if you
care for a plant with too much heat (sun +
a kettle instead of a cloud), they'll die before they stop reaching
out to you. gasping for less and more all at once.
the showerhead is a sputtering mess on the tiled floor,
so we freeze on the edge of the bathtub to watch it
die. mourning is disruptive so life gets to wait for us this time;
mopping up heat & wet & my hair from the floor,
yellowing towels with something that looks a lot like
love.
