Still Water, Warm Skin

Steam fogs the mirror’s cracked grin,

water seeps slow, pooling quiet,

encircled by chipped enamel scars—

rust stains smeared like faint old bruises.

The faucet drips its steady Morse,

not urgent but endless, persistent,

a lonely punctuation in the night.

I stare through fog and glass,

catching myself in fractured frames.

Warm water swallows the cold edge,

fingers float, unanchored and soft,

while tired tiles crouch close,

cracked lips whispering forgotten songs.

Time pools here, slow and still,

held beneath the surface,

a place where weight lifts

only to settle deeper inside.