I
Steam writes on the glass—
her warm hips, a hill I trace
with fingertips—slow.
We read vapor’s diary:
words only our skin can draw.
II
Water coins cascade—
between us— breast against breast,
warm as our shared breath.
Each ripple holds what we vowed:
we are the well that recalls.
III
Soap stains her warm cheek—
a violet bruise where we touch,
no need for our eyes.
This downward gaze is the place
our roots grip dark, then bloom wide.