Mounted on her wall-bound throne,

Our very first voyeur weeps 

At the sight of my naked scalp.

She remembers your fingers there,

Covered in the optimistic whites of 

Shampoo suds and fresh-made love

As they trailed up and down,

Cleaning and dirtying themselves

Until the water ran cold.

My head is empty and full,

As her steam-hot tears

Course over my contours-

Suppose that water does have memory,

And this would be among

Its most vivid recollections—

And ignite a longing,

Once absent entirely,

But now all-consuming.

Water cycles through it all—

You used to kiss me,

Full of it and opened-mouth,

And push it in mine with your cheeks

Like you were my feathered mother—

It gets reused endlessly.

Water that circles down the clogged drain

Of your dorm hall’s shower

May spiral back up and through 

My Kama Sutra Showerhead.

It touches you as we used to touch,

And accesses what is no longer mine:

Sometimes I weep with her,

As I turn her nozzle thrice

And press her where I needed you,

And need her in your stead.

The sound of metallic sobbing

Meets the weakness of a flesh

That I struggle to confess 

Unless alone in spaces

Where we used to be

Together.