i remember you closing running taps. telling me not to waste water.
now it falls, steaming, as i slowly undress. i'm shivering; i cannot even stand straight. then it's hot water on cold stiff skin. i do not mind the burning. standing under, i wonder if this is what bodies feel like before they are washed and buried.
i play it out in my head: you stepping in, how you join me under water. water accumulates beneath our feet. clogged. around my ankles circle all the things we cannot say, we cannot feel. standing in this pool perhaps we can start to understand each other.
i, hair undone, tongue sticking out. you tell me it can help diagnose myself. you inspect it- my tongue, the colour of my heart. "lack of iron and nutrients" you lick my tongue and smile. i blink and you're gone. i close the tap. i step out.
