The pale blue enamel

The pale blue enamel

chips like a forgotten promise.

I'm trying to think of something else,

anything else,

but my eyes catch

the rust bloom near the drain.

It spreads,

a tiny, stubborn map

of what this water does,

what it leaves behind.

The ring around the tub,

thick as a wedding band

I never got,

refuses to budge.

Even the soap,

a single grey rectangle,

holds its shape

against the constant tide.