The Plateau

I waited.

Five minutes

for the water

to warm,

watching the steam

that wasn't quite steam,

the heat

that was trying

but not hard enough.

It plateaued.

That's the word.

Like the water

decided

this was as far

as it was going,

this middle temperature,

this neither-nor.

I showered anyway.

Stood under

the not-hot

not-cold

stream

and waited

for the moment

when my shoulders

would relax,

when the tension

would drain

into the water

and leave me

soft.

It never came.

My body stayed

tense,

stayed

unconvinced,

stayed

waiting

for the commitment

the water

wouldn't make.

I washed.

I rinsed.

I stood there

an extra minute,

hoping

something would shift,

would heat up,

would stop

being

adequate.

Nothing changed.

I got out

unsatisfied,

the way you get out

when the shower

hasn't delivered,

when you're cleaner

but not

better,

when the water

just does

the minimum.

This is how

disappointment works.

Not in the big moments.

But in the small ones,

the everyday ones,

where you ask

so little

and still

don't get

enough.

Right now,

someone else

is standing under it,

waiting for

the same thing,

getting the same

nothing,

settling

the way we all

settle.