I sat in there, on the tiled floor with the hot water pouring over me, relaxing my tight muscles that had become tense whenever i started to
think to much,
and even after,
when the water had grown colder and frigid and I wondered how much colder it could get and how much longer I could last before becoming a human Popsicle,
sludgy around the edges but still frozen enough to burn your fingers.
( - a.s )
YOU ARE READING
Ne Decorem
Poetry"Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?" - Virginia Woolf
