Not Mine

I fill the glass and bring it to my mouth

and know immediately

this isn't home.

The water tastes like minerals,

like something pulled from earth

I don't know,

processed through pipes

I haven't mapped.

There's chlorine underneath,

heavier than what I'm used to,

a chemical taste that says

this place is proud of its cleanliness,

its order,

its distance from anything wild.

My tongue tries to place it,

tries to translate the flavor

into something familiar,

but it won't translate.

I'm far enough away now

that even the water

tastes like a stranger's house.

I drink it anyway.

It's still water.

It still goes down.

But it sits in my stomach

like a secret,

like proof

that I've left

somewhere important.