Waterline

A frayed knot, water drips down its little threads. Hanging barely onto a tree branch, its tyre floats below, among little circlets of water, current not strong enough to pull it from where it’s always lived.

Our names carved onto the tree tiptoe the waterline, a gust of wind and they’re submerged, calm returns and we resurface.

It runs through the cracked tiles, washed over that one spot frogs use to sunbathe, the rust of your trampoline’s metallic legs flake away, droplets hanging onto the net as they make their way down.

It’s quiet, trains no longer run in the distance, the garden now turned into the pool we have always wanted.

The water chips away the front door’s white paint, there’s a handprint on the condensed window, over the stained glass. You can press your head against it and see the piano in your living room. If you’re quiet enough, you can hear it play, by a stream of water coming from upstairs, from the rooms, from the bathroom, from the bathtub, from the tap we have never turned off.