Drained

Michael, I'm not really angry, just dripping with disappointment. It's been a while since that cold night with, you know, the hot bubble bath...where my dreams were dashed by broken promises, like so many popped bubbles circling the drain... Tonight as I soak alone, I recall your last words as you exited when the water got too cool for your liking (so unlike you to split just because the going gets tough...) Anyway, "I will return..." you said. Then added what you would bring for me. But, alas, there is no sight of you here in the cool waters of life and I feel to be a grape barely on the vine clinging to the edge of the tub of existence knowing I am withering and wrinkling into a prune. I have a fantasy of you appearing at my door with strawberry champagne-scented bubblebath beads. I have warm memories of, while trying to dislodge your big toe from the faucet, your checking out the instructions on the Mr. Bubble box. You were puzzled because it read, "KEEP DRY" and you wondered how we could ever use it if we kept it dry. Afraid to make any serious error, I have left the box untouched and my baths remain bubble-less until your return. As for your second empty promise- I await the special bath pillow. Where the hell is THAT, HUH?? And finally, and most importantly, I would have thought your aquatic adventure would have inspired a song just for me. How long have I waited for what Stevie Nicks so wonderfully expressed in, "Has Anyone Ever Written A Song For You?" But nothing. No song entitled, "I Am Your Mr. Bubble" or my personal favorite, "Slippery When Wet." Oh, to be on your new CD... Sigh. Have all dreams gone down the drain? My duck is still afloat, but my heart is sinking. As I await soaking in herbs rather than strawberries, the water gets colder...

Sign me,
wrinkled in thyme

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