Lyric

The door sticks once before it opens

Heat comes in behind my knees

My towel hangs from a broken handle

Still carrying the street

A cracked blue tile

A rusted key

Water ticking

Underneath the sink

I wash the road out of my fingers

Foam runs pale around the drain

Some small green scent cuts through the sweating walls

And gives the room a name

Lime Soap Beneath the Ceiling Fan

I stand there breathing, almost clean

No one knows where I have been

No one asks what it means

For five slow minutes, I belong

To water, heat, and turning air

Not saved, not new, not home

But quietly repaired

Outside, a scooter coughs and vanishes

Someone laughs below the stairs

My shirt clings cold across my shoulders

Then warms again in layers

The mirror blurs

The floor stays damp

My body returns

One breath at a time

I thought relief would feel larger

A door thrown open

A sky without weight

But it comes in small rooms

With cheap white towels

And a bar of green soap

Left beside the basin

The fan keeps cutting the evening

Into circles I can use

My bag waits open by the mattress

My shoes are dark with yesterday’s bruise

I turn the tap until it trembles

Let the last warm water run

There are places that do not hold me

Still they soften what I become