“She’s a good person, you know.”
The bath grew cold twenty minutes ago. Water fills the gaps between her toes like air fills her lungs. (Vital.) (Necessary.) She tilts her head onto the tile, the hard surface relentless against her scalp, forcing her to forget.
At least here. At least now.
She is not remembering; she is listening to the methodical, meticulous drip-drip of the leaky faucet that the landlord refuses to fix. What once was her vexation is now her solace. Funny how things change.
And just like that, she is sucked back in, drowning in the mirage of what she once knew, melting into a horizon of revelation.
Heartache is no longer a hyperbole when it screams inside one’s chest.
She inhales, exhales, inhales and disappears beneath the agitated surface, entering a pool of sensory deprivation. But she is not deprived of her mind.
He is there and you are there. You’re there because you’re him.
You happened to me
On an ideal day
At an ideal time
In an ideal place
I painted you in pointillism
Made brushstrokes of your cubism
But we were never surrealism
Only caught up in impressionism
You were particles
Seeking me to make you whole
I was already whole
Then you happened to me.