Shower curtain sadness. She is here, once-lover, former lover. She has come a long way, is tired, needs to bathe. Her hair is long again. It is my idea to stay with her in the bathroom as she cleans, so we can converse. We have not talked much. It is awkward and broken, but the soap and shampoo and steam and the thought of her skin, dripping and seductive, resurrects memories of the months with her that were not patchworked or cracked.
Shoes and clothes on carpet and tile. I want to tear the plastic veil between us--
But now we are walking. Night. Steps towards parked cars outlined by the annoying, hope-killing brightness of a neighbor's floodlight. She would rather shower with her new-lover, her second love.
Replaced; abandoned. And that is that.
This is a dream of my former girlfriend, reigniting thought-defeated desires.
