Not Mine

The water tastes like minerals,

like somewhere else's geology

living on my tongue.

I'm in my sister's kitchen

holding a cold glass,

and the kitchen window

shows me a street

I'll never know the name of.

The tap water sits wrong,

heavy and specific,

the way homesickness tastes

when you're standing in a place

that's supposed to be temporary

but feels permanent in a different way.

I don't belong to this water.

It doesn't belong to me.

A coffee maker from next door

hums through the wall.

Someone else's morning.

Someone else's home taste.

I drink it anyway.

The mineral-heavy cold

slides down and settles

like I'm trying to make this place

stick to my insides.

It doesn't.