Over your closed eyes
Over your closed eyes warm water rises. It blocks the lights in the steam and the mirrors and tiles fitted together reflecting lost moon yawns, the fluorescent coldness that condenses the warm darkness into tangible black powder beneath your fingernails, into oily creases that reach out from your pressed shut eyes and lips, and into the cracks that soften on your soaked feet falling open and pasty. Warm black silt fills your clothes, wrests open your teeth and entombs your lungs as you continue to breathe. The steam and the night caught indoors are narcotic. You coalesce into something shutting down. You coalesce before the seas can process you into darkness, into shifting sands and irreducible currents. You must be all before you can be nothing. You must breathe as you drown or you will not drown.