That first night back, I almost didn’t want to bathe.
Cold tile bit into the backs of my thighs, my back,
supporting as gentle rain showered down, warm,
soothing sounds pounding down as it swirled down the drain.
Too tired to move. Too tired to think.
Numbly wrapped up in a grey fog that lifted only a little while
and only that warm water could wash it away, the flow mimicking,
only for a little while, your warmth, your voice,
until it too swirled down the drain, and I’m left cold, naked, alone.