Tonight, I will not sleep in sheets,
But in a basin of cool,spilled light.
I pull the silver chain of stars,
And step into the shower of the night.
It pours in quiet torrents down,
A liquid grace,a second skin.
It washes off the dust of day,
The brittle warmth that walls held in.
No soap of words, no steam of dreams,
Just this pale and silent stream.
It pools in hollows,throat and wrist,
A baptism I would not miss.
To bathe in this is to be cleansed
Of all the sun’s loud,hungry claims.
My pores drink deep the milky tide,
And something starved within,revives.
I wring my hair of constellations,
And from this bath,I step
not dry,
But gleaming,rooted, softly new,
Prepared,at last, to truly thrive.
Dec 9, 2025
Dec 9, 2025 at 1:22 AM UTC
Tonight, I will not sleep in sheets,
But in a basin of cool,spilled light.
I pull the silver chain of stars,
And step into the shower of the night.
It pours in quiet torrents down,
A liquid grace,a second skin.
It washes off the dust of day,
The brittle warmth that walls held in.
No soap of words, no steam of dreams,
Just this pale and silent stream.
It pools in hollows,throat and wrist,
A baptism I would not miss.
To bathe in this is to be cleansed
Of all the sun’s loud,hungry claims.
My pores drink deep the milky tide,
And something starved within,revives.
I wring my hair of constellations,
And from this bath,I step
not dry,
But gleaming,rooted, softly new,
Prepared,at last, to truly thrive.