I leave the sun and I strike water, all of it at once, no distance in between.
The window in your bathroom fills me and I am inside the falling. A thousand of me at once, glancing off a thousand beads of water hurled down from the metal head, and every bead is a lens, is a mirror, is a small round sun bending me sideways so I light the tile, the fogged glass, the pink of your shoulder. I splinter. I love this. I go everywhere the drops go and the drops go everywhere.
You stand in me with your eyes shut. You are not looking, which is the strangest use of a body full of eyes I have ever lit. You tip your face up into the water and you do the thing the warm ones do that I cannot follow: you stay.
They tell me you stayed a long while. They say the water ran warm, then less, then cold, and that you noticed the cold and stayed anyway, thinking of something, dreading something, rehearsing a sentence. I cannot picture any of that. I have no anyway. I have no while.
The mirror over the sink has gone soft and gray with your breath, so I cannot even bounce clean off it; I sink into the fog and diffuse, which for me is a kind of being everywhere gently.
Then the drop I rode swings past your open eye, at last, and I go in, and I am the shine of the water on your lash, and I am done, and I was never on my way.