i stand in front of the Bath,
Taking a moment to enjoy the experience before it starts.

Stream rises from the Surface,
Like butterflies over a field
of fresh spring blossoms
It hovers, seductively inviting me in with a lazy sense if urgency.

In the corner, a lone Candle flickers in the rising Steam,
Lazily shining its Light
Like a Capetonian on a lazy summers evening sipping wine under the setting sun.

The Water,
blue from the bubblebath,
Smells like an orange, ancient, triangular spire in the early dawn of Time.

The hot Water receives my body
And awakens hibernating skin
From its cold, white winter's slumber.

The curious Water
Finds its way all over my skin
In every corner it can,
It crawls into
And caresses me softly

Slowly I relax,
As Sir Isaac Newton makes my bath colder
And as my skin and water temperatures equalise
I lose all sense of self

Held afloat by the mighty Water
I gaze at the white bubbles
As they dance on my chest
Popping and merging
Reflecting light and whispering
Until I finally fall asleep in blissful relaxation.

i am sinking slowly, bubbles escaping my mouth, racing their way to the surface, competing towards their imminent death.

I watch, spellbound by their journey towards the sun. But i am not racing, i am not floating, i am sinking. Sinking lowly but surly towards oblivion. I am content though, feeling at peace with what is, what was and what could be.

The water starts to crush but i don’t mind, i take it as a blessing of sorts, i like this, condemned to be nothing more than what i am right at this moment. I like not being in control for once. I like the salted taste of the water as i watch the last bubbles force their way from my closed lips without my consent.

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the water consume me and i slide back into the reality of my mind, encased beneath a blue world.

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.

24 hours without.
Strip off the clothes that enveloped you
And have been my armor for the past day.
I try to convince myself I'm not washing you away.
That I'm not sending the sensations
Of your soft skin on mine
Down the drain.
I turn the water temperature up high,
Because maybe the heat will burn through a layer of my storm cloud,
And I wait a while before stepping under the flow,
Hugging my arms tightly around my aching frame.
A song comes on and then another and another
And my tears intermingle with the warmth surrounding me.
It's hard to always be on the verge.
Makes it difficult to speak.
So I close my mouth
And I lock up my heart.
You once whispered to me:
"It's hard to feel this sad and this happy
At the same time."
What a paradoxical feeling.
When the water runs free of shampoo and bubbles,
And I fear you've gone,
I curl up into a towel
Which is soaked in the scent
Of fresh lilies.
My darling.
Guess there's no way I can get rid of you that easily.

Her hopes were like bubbles
Prancing around
Right before her eyes
Optimistically floating
Into her hands.
But just as she tried to grab onto them
pop
They burst into the reality she lived in
And was left alone
With nothing
But the residue
Of the hope she once had