I have no time for a quick bath.
Any thoughts of rush through this and on to the next are lost in the smooth eddies that form around my sinking hips.
My feet, tentative ambassadors from the department of testing the waters bravely pave the way and let me know just how difficult this might be.
Sometimes it takes me just as long to find myself all the way in, cool skin to hot water ratio off the charts, as my would-like-to-be-orderly to do list brain has allotted for the complete experience.
It could be I’m economical with warmth. As long as there is heat, rising in waves of steam from the surface it makes good logical sense to stay. Better to delve than to dissipate.
I’m greedy for the weightlessness, the all encompassing sensation of being submerged. The feeling that I’m not trapped but set free, a contentment of containment.
Caught up, enraptured by the fancy of a fever dream more dream than fever. A notion I am a personification of Atlantis, a lost continent found, and fortunate be any man who finds himself alighting on her magical shore.
There is enchantment in the music of it, the toe toying with the spigot steady tap drip accompaniment of a slightly different temperature, creating rhythm with the ripple effect.
It’s a communication between the substances separated by surface layer of skin. Like the whales, I’ve found my way back to the sea, however temporary and saltless the visit.
There is poetry in the sound of the world from below,
an echo chamber where time’s influence is only measured in how long I can stay breathless.