The steam reveals the finger
and handprints of our love
on the vanity mirror.
The water rolls down your tanned flesh
like it would if a waterlogged schooner was
abandoned at sea.
The heat of the water
curls the chains of your hair,
making them black as they whip my cheeks
in your playful way of rinsing shampoo.
I touch you as bubbles cover your
mascara runs down the sides of the shoulder
You stare over as
I reach out to catch it.
Trying to hold it in my finger tips like it was the
last earthly thing to hold close
enough to your form to bravely say it has felt you.
I am just a man,
naked except for tattooed lines
that etch a story of twenty two short years.
Your marks are from God;
the eight moles on your chin and neck,
bruises from a long night
of making love and smoking out of your bedroom window,
and a cut on your finger from opening the last
Coke and sharing it with me at dinner.
As you shut off the drain we both shiver,
electricity humming in our bones
as we sing into each other’s larynxes,
knowing the perfect words
to the songs we had written for each other,
long before we had known ourselves.