Bathtubs
don't encompass
the flicks of your upturned mouth,
or the etchings of chapped lips
that cut your tongue
when you speak.

Your milky figure
pours into the aquamarine warmth below.
The lavender colored bubbles
Pop
in eighth notes and song lyrics
which bounce off the shower curtain
to the rug,
and back.

The water overflows
its porcelain prison
to compensate for the greatness
in your voice
and gets hotter
with each and every breath
you release
from your fire-filled lungs.

It overruns the bathroom,
and floods the hall with each blink of your eye,
each wisp of your lashes,
the floorboards soaking in every freckle
until every surface of mine
is covered in every cell of you.