bubbles

I remember your hands
learning the geography of me
the warmth of you pressed against me
the scent of roses

you said it felt like washing clean—
like all the wrong we carried
might loosen, slip from our skin,
circle the drain without a fight

I wanted to believe you
so I let you press your hands to me
like a priest unsure of the ritual
but desperate to mean it

now the tub is just a tub
a hollow mouth in the bathroom

that won’t speak your name back
I turn the faucet and nothing answers
but the sound of something leaving

last night I sat in the tub,
fully clothed, like a body not claimed,
and press my palms to the porcelain
to see if I could still feel you
I couldn’t

everything that held us
has gone quiet
even the water refuses
to keep our shape

---

𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤

Pretty words for ugly things.