a shower

She steps into the shower and turns up her face to the spray that forms rivers which cascade down her body, across all the soft spots, across and down the gentle curves and even into those hidden areas that she once opened to him. He remembers some of them, now, with the picture of her in his head, soaking her hair, and recalling, too, how she came to bed with her hair still damp and fresh from her washing and its softness, and how cool it felt against his skin and how it enveloped him without suffocation when she slipped onto his body and kissed his lips and how it, her dampened hair, darkened out everything but her warmth. He remembers, too, the urgency of her breathing, or, better yet, how it became urgent, and how her lips would slide to his neck and remain there, her face buried there, in a resignation, sort of, or was it a surrender, or was it the innocence of a true love? Or was it just in the fleeting of a moment they both knew would someday not return. They would consummate her cleansing, then, with a cleansing consummation. And he wrote it so, now, because there was a spirituality to it that seemed that way – pure, honest, true. Then, he hears a voice over a loudspeaker that says, “The library is closing in 10 minutes," and he stops writing and thinking about ... her. Again.