Hard Water

The bedroom is heavy, the air is too thick.

The silence between us is making me sick.

I lie on the mattress and count every beat

of the kitchen faucet, the sound of defeat.

A heavy, wet thud against the dull steel,

reminding me how much we no longer feel.

The lime is building a crust on the base,

a green ring of rot on the chrome of its face.

It grows like a moss in the dark of the night,

choking the pipe and hiding from light.

The drip is a rhythm I can’t seem to break,

keeping the ghosts of the house wide awake.