The floor is cold and hard- no rug on it in years
kitchen lights above cast an annoying glare through my glasses.
If they are the sun, I lay directly in their harsh,
There is no water. All of it
I hold onto one drop of thought
but it grows.
I have not swum in too long,
My arms and legs are not used to this water;
drowning drowning drowning;
I cannot stop
Someone pulled the plug on the ocean
and I go spiralling down with the water until there is no more.
I am on the floor
because I think too much
and the stiffness of the wood offers
There is an absence of rug under my body.
It is much too late at night for me to still be here.