there is
steam on the mirror
like a milky cellophane

and squiggles of water
in the bath
from half an hour ago

half-dried footprints
are a language
that leads

to where you sit
in dungarees
hair dripping and slippery

a beaming delight
with mahogany marble eyes
crescent moon smile

and we mention how we’ll walk
down capital city streets
choking on their own traffic

giggle at a fingernail
smidge of coffee that grips
my upper lip

skirt past knots of tourists
bury our heads
in a bookshop

where floorboards snicker
where we murmur a story
among many a story

and say how goodbyes
are rotten apples
if you’ve yet to say hello