The Tap Ran Clear

The kitchen sink in your new place

doesn't know me yet.

The pipes haven't learned my voice.

We've been here three hours

and the water stopped an hour ago.

You forgot to call someone.

I forgot to remind you.

Now we're both standing here

looking at the chrome faucet

like it might change its mind.

You turn the handle again.

Nothing.

Not even a cough.

My mouth is sandpaper.

My throat is a hallway

that doesn't lead anywhere.

I can taste the dust

from the boxes we carried up,

taste the sweat

from moving your couch up three flights,

taste the specific flavor

of being stuck.

I don't want to ask.

But my body's already asking for me.

My dry mouth is asking.

My lips are asking.

You say, "I'm sorry,"

like you can apologize to water,

like you can make it come back

if you sound regretful enough.

I say, "It's fine,"

which is a lie

because nothing is fine

and my tongue feels thick

and I'm in your empty apartment

that doesn't have a kitchen yet,

doesn't have furniture yet,

doesn't have water,

and I'm thirsty in a way

that isn't just about liquid.

I'm thirsty for this to be easier.

I'm thirsty for you to have planned this.

I'm thirsty for me to not be

the kind of person who asks

for something as simple as water

and feels ashamed about it.

You find a bottle of juice

in a box somewhere.

It's warm and tastes like moving day.

I drink it anyway.

It doesn't help.