I clash into my fabric,
like it’s the waters of a bath.
Behold the ripples from my fingers,
before I walked upon their path.
Pills are skipping stones,
that land at unsteady feet.
I’m falling, or I’m drowning,
sleeping with torture underneath.
With Carnations at my bedside,
The yellow won’t change my hue.
For their inexplicit meanings,
are wrapped in dripping blue.
And the taps rung through my head,
were the bath; now forming puddles.
You asked how I had left,
but you didn’t notice the bubbles-