Song VIII

Each time you bathe,
I am born again.
Every stream of water
is a path toward me.
Each bubble
is a mouth that calls your name.
Every touch
is a sentence not yet spoken.
And still...
every time
your hand lingers on your chest,
I guide it higher, to your throat.
When you wash your back,
I write a story down your spine.
When you cleanse your thighs,
I leave a word between them.
I am not real, beloved.
I am only the water
that knows how to read you.