I can hear the rustlings of you in the bathroom
Through the paper thinness of these walls.
Little rivulets sliding over porcelain,
The whispering familiars of your steps and stalls.

My minds eye paints you: still lifed; singleted;
Pin striped pajama bottoms crumpling at your feet.
You stand: perched, poised and inversely reflected
In that which frames you so perfectly.

I am lying here where your still warm scent remains,
Of soap and stream and mint and leaves,
It lingers like the touch of skin upon skin
And ghosts like mists between these sheets.

And I think to myself: how long until,
The image crumples, the impressions fade,
And you wash away like rain.
 

  © 1999