The water rippled with
miniature tidal waves as she stepped in
Clothing absent
Skin, mind, feeling,
All bare before me
She sunk in.

I shrunk to the floor
Next to the tub
She seemed to float in her
oatmeal bath
I reached for the book
The one I bought her from
a hole in the wall store
in my hometown.

My eyes drift to the tips of her hair
Dipped into the water, almost baptismal
Most people have hair growing from
their head.
Lauren's is embroidered

I open the cover
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

From my lips,
where love once halted
and sighed in defeat,
a voice leaves reserved only for her

We clutch hands
I, almost immediately,
completely instinctively,
squeeze tight,
afraid she might drown
were I to let go.

But she doesn't need saving
Neither do I.
Because of that
There is love.
Reading to her in the bath
Is love
Holding her hand is love
Dining on her past
Is love.