A woman sits in a pink tub
with a hand-written letter
resting in the bubbles.
Her tangerine colored jeans
are spread carelessly on the
black and white tiled floor
of her parents’ home where
she has not been for four
years. Her braided hair is
soaked, her eyes filled with
tears and dreams of the phone
ringing to pull her out of this
intoxicating state of yesturday.
She has been swimming in
her own doubt and blindness
for over six hours. The words
on the page, “I don’t love you”
have not changed. She should probably
get up, open the shades above
her childhood bed to let in the
next fifty years, a wind of vows,
babies, promotions, and
American nightmares in
small white envelopes with
clear plastic windows that
read the price of your soul.
Or should she sit and soak
while the water is still warm.
