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Sins that can’t be washed away

Shower cubicle with a black showerhead and textured white ceramic tiles. The basin with a mirror is also visible.

Like some perverted Pavlovian desire,
the wafting smell of fresh soap
that fills up the air in the bath
has my pupils dilate when walking out.
It brings to mind scenes and sensations,
alluring in their glory:
curves of the lower back, the upper front,
belly-button bobbing from easy breaths,
soft foam from the loofah – surrounding,
caressing a thigh innocently as possible –
rubbing circles against the oft-forgot shoulders,
eyes bright on a face untouched,
and soapy fingers gliding through soft wet hair.

The discarded loofah lies on the side,
so innocuous, so oblivious to my mind –
which never hesitates to latch onto the self,
shapely and bare,
staring down my clavicle to my toes,
staring down my reflection over my nose,
something carnal in the air –
probably just the soap.

Cover Image: Photo by Zac Gudakov on Unsplash