And we’re sinking now,
Like newspaper boats in porcelain bathtubs,
Wrapped tight in rubber bands.
Still, all these tiny, perfect, typefaced font words come floating to the top.
They’re the leftovers, really.
All the things we could’ve asked or said, that we swallowed down.
It felt like swallowing oatmeal.
Lumped and cold with the sugar not mixed in right.
So, you never knew what you were going to get with each bite.
Next thing you know, the bowls empty.
We’re holding our breath,
Staring up at the water.
My hair softly spiraling around me,
I can feel the wrinkles set in my fingertips.
This water kissing beneath my knees.