Fingers dipped, eyes locked on a brick wall, the tap is running tepid water that never reaches its coldness capacity.
The mind is traveling to territories too far to bother.
On a one-way highway to failed car rambles, sing-alongs and coffee moods.
I’m wearing my favorite skin; daughter of the riding Lord.
The drain’s litany is thrown into rivers, as the windows roll down.
Sun peaks on my nose as I squint to let freckles grow.
I look at you drowned in rays; can’t make out your wrinkles, just a floating grin on your lips to greet your whistling.
It’s warm in the space of no direction, it’s so green in this canvas of us.
My hand flirts with the wind, slow dancing until the gush.
As I draw it back, befuddled by the wetness, my eyes clash on burnt sienna.
Brick trumps the vastness of our moment, glimpsing at the sink rips out my skin.
I shut the tap, silence the drain, dry my fingers.
I’ll hitchhike back to you later, stealing a ride in time from the grim reaper.