Quiet Asylum: A Poem

The tap doesn’t close properly.
Drops of water
hang
and fall like saliva.
Each drop
touches
the water differently.
They trace circles where they land.
I shampoo the tangled hair
of memory
and fold together
like a nasturtium in a pond.
Winter’s sliced
the moisture
from my eyes and hope
has sunk like stone into beds of never.
Water is a good place to hide,
a quiet asylum
where I’m just a smudge, a squiggle in the steam.

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