After the Last Lap

The pool’s empty basin yawns,

cracks like dry skin on my palms.

Where water once swallowed the air,

a silence tastes of dust and gray.

No chlorine curls at the edges,

no sting caught thick in my throat.

Just the cold absence of summer—

quiet, sharp, like a cracked shell.

I remember the sharp snap of flip turns,

and goggles pressed wet to my face,

a mouthful of wet sour breath

and heavy chlorine dreams dissolved.

Now I stand where splash once ruled,

watching chipped concrete sigh,

waiting for a season to breathe life back,

or for this ghost pool to forget me.