Surface Tension

The kettle is starting its low, hollow moan,

and I’m standing here, feeling entirely alone.

I rub at a smudge on the neck of the tap,

falling headfirst into a silver-lined trap.

My face is a smear on the curve of the chrome,

stretched like a ghost in a strange, metal home.

The light hits the edge and the kitchen goes grey,

as if the whole morning is sliding away.

It’s a cold kind of mirror, a hard, shiny skin,

that won't let the heat or the sunlight get in.

The steam starts to rise in a thick, white cloud,

and the silence in here is becoming too loud.