Once Again, I Dreamt of Water

Ajeno (Someone Else's)

Labios compartidos/Labios divididos, mi amor

Yo no puedo compartir tus labios

Que comparto el engaño

Y comparto mis días y el dolor

Ya no puedo compartir tus labios

Oh amor, oh amor compartido

—Maná, "Labios Compartidos"

ANNA CAMILA: The brown, squared radio emits sound waves sitting on top of the back of the toilet. The removable showerhead is my blessed mic, and the water cascading is my Niagara Falls—bathing is an experience more than luxury, it is a moment of communion with myself: perfect chemistry, wonderful melodies coming from the radio. My body receives my scrub caresses from these white shower gloves—from these soft chrysanthemum hands, wish they could cleanse more than just dirt—if God could rub out his kisses and efface where Estéfano's lips left caresses. How is it possible that I was forced to go halves with another woman for Estéfano's love, con esa tuída de Alondra?

With the water this new, this warm, no me quiero salir. Feeling so loved where my body does not want to get out or grow old, my intellect does not want to think about its problems, only believe in this love for the water, this love for myself, and think and thank the loving God that made these precious things for me.

Rivulets of water run down my breasts like capillaries, like clear water splitting into different seas. My pores, my moles, suffer without Estéfano. My hair is soft and without breath for his love, and his, the heart of the lark—it's not mine. Was it ever?

I make sure to not step on the slippery tile, I find my balance on the little green folded towel on the floor. Glancing in the mirror to my left, I smile slightly because I seem to be a beautiful queen, moistened face and dampened baby hairs around my forehead, my undulated tresses full of romance. My eyes are like honey water, blended with a sea of green without end.

Now reborn from the shower, I lay in bed nude for a bit. As Estéfano glided with my suppleness, would he fantasize her skeletal structure and insipid skin on his own. As I leaf through my dictionary, I come to a conclusion, that, like the definition for supple (a. compliant often to the point of obsequiousness), that was me; yet no way, not b. readily adaptable or responsive to new situations. Or should I become malleable for him?

As the tectonic plates shift at the rate that nails grow, yet shall I conquer this: slowly sweep away his face, these feelings of death, this dirt: love. It's the kind of hurt that tells me I'm dreaming— just to simmer the sting. The kind of wound I felt in milliseconds, there in the lukewarm stream, I imagined God being light-years away from my soul, yet overseeing everything including my tender heart: that sobbed and continues to do so. But I must forget Estéfano...because I miss . . . Don't say his name anymore.

Am I "in love" with Estéfano? I doubt it. Sometimes I hide — that I am a woman crawling in lust. The Mana song heightened my grief that he is ajeno, someone else's. Through microseconds, God must have seen my soft sighs and leaning against the tiled edge, as I wept; He must have sighed to the nanosecond of my first tear. My heart is alive; this - all I can ask!