light shivers through the glass and you don’t know how to hold it, not in a way that won’t turn it into a mirage, afraid that if you show it to someone else it will turn into so much dust choked up in the pipes of your veins. isn’t it so terrible? to have this in the crevices of your skin, letting it run, letting it go, and it’s all still there in your hands. what do you do with a love that won’t rust? with the door shut but not locked, you turn the tap and let the light wash out. the truth is this: you are the cupped hands and the faucet and the running water flooding your bathroom. the sun through the blinds stings your eyes like freshwater, and you are the sink with the drain plugged up and the counter soaked all the way through, your sleeves sopping wet, and you want like an idiot for the water to erode your fingerprints to nothing, as though that would make all this okay. like it'd be easier if this belonged to someone other than yourself.