Water Mark

The cold porcelain, slick under my palm,

as the water rose, a slow, deep sound.

Just a ritual, to keep me calm,

the day's grime, getting lost and drowned.

But there, at the high-water line,

a faint brown ring, from days before.

Where old thoughts had settled, mine,

left their sediment against the floor.

And the faucet, a rhythmic drip,

into the rising warmth, a steady beat.

A small, quiet argument on my lip,

a truth too slow to be complete.