Bubble, or bubbles, I can never remember how many there would be. I do however remember you always meeting me.
Tiny square tab, suggesting an invite on my tongue, a long release from the bothers of life around me all precariously hung.
That’s exactly what I needed, and to see you meant my journey had begun.
Before I’d present myself to you, I’d lay my hands on the ground.
Like a ceremonial procedure that became natural, a dark recess. Surfaces would start rolling gently, kissing on my palms.
There. That was the feeling. How I knew it would feel, ready to come to you, my small secret escape. A delicate animation from what my brain recalls.
You always sat there, just below the faucet. Hovering above the drain, knees were drawn up to your chest.
Your voice never realized words, just made the shape of a bubble, keeping time with the water droplets, popping silently landing on my fingers.
Translucent, heliotrope, with a yellow glowing aura. Turning slowly into an incandescent tan.
Somehow you brought me comfort, this gentle fragile feminine thing. Small and secret, just those bubbles, or was it a singular bubble? After working through it, I simply can’t recall.
I just know it was something to be kept between us, my conjured, bubbling djinn.
