One Hundred Fahrenheit

I mistake the falling shower water for her skin sometimes.

Sue me, its misty arms wrap around me, bringing comfort after melancholy.

At one hundred degrees, it mimics her touch of a gentle inviting fire,

soft, it eases the spirit sometimes restless inside.

The water will trace my every inch, inside and out.

 

I can’t and I won’t want to leave it when the day’s beginning,

when work and the real world and monochrome call.

 

Some days I’ll step into that wet, hot sanctuary more than once

to let the world fall off my shoulders and vanquish,

the chaos from behind the gates rushing past them

and sticking to my skin as a Zebra to a river.

I’ll be filthy.

 

Lips of skin and not water brush against my own, hands against my neck.

Water, let alone a universe, wishes to, but cannot compare.