The hallway is a swamp of steam

The hallway is a swamp of steam

and the sharp, fake scent of eucalyptus.

You left without a word again,

just a door clicking shut in the dark.

My foot finds the heavy dampness

of the towel you dropped by the tub.

The cold cotton soaks into my sock,

a wet map of your indifference.

I stand in the dark with one wet foot

waiting for the water in the pipes

to stop its rattling scream.