There is a tiny hole

A missing miniscule grain

In the cement between two of the tiles

And I wonder, sitting there on that cool, porcelain countertop

If I whisper…

No, a whisper would be like an earthquake for such a tiny crack

If I just wonder, slowly…

One thought creeping up like a silky spider behind another…

If I could let my dreams and hopes trickle down into this little groove.

If I could bury these ambitions

I would offer up my fears and my angers

But they're so large

They would never spiral down so smoothly

Into this insignificant pocket

This little flaw in the white tile.

I allow my toe to trace over the creases

The edge of the tile seems to shudder as I stroke it

I remember when I could feel like that

I recall when I would yearn and dream for that

For the slightest brush of another human

Nothing of promises or obligations

Merely a brief snapshot of someone caring

An apocalyptic moment of serenity before it all comes crashing down

But it is in some sort of chronological mapping

A space labeled so freely on a murky timeline

Void of any true meaning

Any true intention.