rainfall showerhead

hi, honey

"honey" - that's funny

I used to write these poems for someone else, someone much different than you

I have no one to call to from the bathroom tonight 

not tonight, no

instead I just brush my teeth and crawl into an unmade bed, next to a pile of textbooks 

and wait for the future to hurry up

if I stare up at this tarnished metal for too long 

and watch it slip toward cold between blinks

then I'll think about you 

and how, someday, I'll yell, "hey, honey" 

and you'll come running in

or walking in, more like

sleepy and soft in your fuzzy, worn robe

one you've had since the days that you were like me

"what's wrong?" you'll ask

or maybe you'll just stare at my syrupy, goofy smile 

and let the softened terrycloth fall to the ground

the water will run warmer, just with you in it, too

and I'll tell you that I was thinking of that just now

and how I used to hope I'd have it one day - but with you

and not just someone like you

with you

will you laugh and drop your head to my shoulder

the way I daydreamed it? 

I only have one more question, one that I'll ask to the smoke alarm in the corner

or to the half-empty closet, where I always leave room for you

can I kiss you

from all these years away?

because I'm really, really trying to.