sometimes,
i un-know
the shape
of self—
dissolve before
remembering.
i sit
in the ache
of heat,
and nothing
else.
minutes
dissolve
into
maybe hours
or never.
drip,
drip,
drip,
drip.
(i can’t tell
if it’s dripping
or if i’m unraveling
in rhythm.)
thoughts blur,
slide,
melt—
into tile grout.
i breathe —
maybe i don’t.
maybe the air is too soft to hold.
maybe i’ve been
gone
this whole time:
what was i
thinking?
(was i thinking?)
just heat, and water,
and the pressure of something
heavier
than skin—
but not quite grief,
not quite anything.
and still i sit.
and still,
the faucet sings,
and still,
no one knows
how quiet
i’ve become.
I’ve been experimenting… I don’t know if I like this.
