light drips through a skylight, like 

the last dredges of syrup out of a bottle, golden

drops of sun pooling on the bathroom floor, warming 

linoleum, so I turn off the lights with a silent little click and watch

the clouds drift across my tile floor,

little grey ghosts, and it’s one of those skinny bathrooms,

shower toilet sink towel door

with tarnished golden hinges and a fake crystal doorknob,

an awkward space between the seat and toilet paper but

I cry here,

scrubbed secrets away here, 

I put out my hand under the skylight

grimy dirty shaking 

I wish life were a syrup bottle, full of gold

I watch little grey ghosts drift across the bathroom floor.