In a bathtub

I’m laying here in my tiny bathtub
while a scented candle lights the room up
and Tom O.’s voice sounding from my notebook
keeps company to my sunken, blue look
(I’ve grown quite fond of some of his lyrics,
my sore soul resonates with what he speaks),
so sharply contrasting with the pink hue
of the near steaming hot water due to
a cherry bath-bomb in it dissolving.
The water level continues rising
in tiny increments as tears burst out
of my eyes and, taking the shortest route,
stream down my cheeks just to finally drop
into the bath water without a plop
and blend with it, expanding the volume
rather imperceptibly, I assume,
so it barely covers my naked chest.
Newton’s law claims that a body at rest
wants to stay at rest. And neither do I
have the will to move, nor even so try,
because I’m drowning in despair and woe.
It’s almost the same like three years ago,
except then I was getting shower-doused
in another bathroom, another house,
when I first realised that I was screwed
because I somehow fell in love with you.
Unbelievable how fast the time flies!
Do you know that we watched the same sunrise
about two weeks ago? Oh, how could you
when I haven’t yet written so to you?
My bath’s going cold but I’m still drenching,
of your hands holding my body dreaming.
I wish you were here to help me soap up,
and wash clean and dry in a  follow-up.
I think of your lips, how they looked so dry
in your latest picture and how much I
would love to moisturise them with a touch
of my own lips in a passionate smooch.
(Funny that your lips look like you’ve run through
a desert when I feel just like that too.)
But I’m left only with wishful longing
and every single day I keep asking:
Why are my feelings to you still so strong
when loving you is, apparently, wrong?