You counted this morning while the water went cold

You counted this morning while the water went cold.

Seventeen repeating motifs before it starts again:

small geometric shapes, or maybe they're meant to be flowers,

you've never been sure,

you've never looked long enough to know.

The side facing the window is bleached nearly white,

where the sun has been washing it away

for six months straight.

The other side stays darker, more faithful to whatever

the designer intended before they got bored

or ran out of time.

Did they know about the repetition?

Did they think about the people

who would shower in this rectangle,

counting the same shapes over and over

until the shapes stopped meaning anything

and just became the place where you stood naked,

a prisoner of symmetry?

Seventeen. Then repeat.

Seventeen. Then repeat.

Your body knows the pattern now

without your permission.

You've memorized the way the light

falls on the seventh shape,

how the fifteenth one has a small tear,

how by the time you reach seventeen

you're almost ready to turn around

and face yourself.