the blueshift journal

The house is quiet except for water

collecting in the sink. It is

 

as easy as breathing — turning

the faucet on and off.

 

I don’t want to go outside today.

Instead, I build lakes in dirty coffee cups, form

 

snow out of foamy bubbles.

Nothing is cleaned but my hands, more

 

pink and tender now

than when I woke and thought of you

 

and the time we washed my car.

The run-off escaped in little streams to dry-up

 

somewhere secret and I was

so content, then,

 

I didn’t even think

to wonder where it went.