The drip, drip, drip of the faucet,
Sends the water rippling by my toes.
Painted coral, like the June sun that I long to watch set over me again.
Instead I am still,
I am still amongst the water.
And the water,
It too is still.
Except for the ripple after the drip.
It has become cold.
Still, I can’t even get out.
My skin puckers tight.
As if it just sucked on a lemon.
Even it feels more than I.
I just sit here.
I sit here sucking back men without guns and dealers with no cards.
I lay back with these novels and poems
These words that pop up on paper.
But not at my door.
And still my heart beats heavier and slow, slow, slower with each let down.
I lay back, even older than noon.
Wanting the cards.
Needing the guns.
To heat up what’s cold.
To burn me alive.
To cast a thousand monarchs inside me once again.
So that I may feel the tickle of their wings,
So that I may feel my heart race.
Instead, I watch the water still.