when I wash my hands I keep thinking about the way the water sticks to me the way I use so many towels more than anyone else needs what's the word? the way the water sticks like the daydream of a tide in my skin like I'm special from the stories of the sleepy car rides staring at the moon the days when I still loved to swim before the tide came in and pulled me out before I had the shame to think that conducting the clouds with my favorite stick was strange when I thought I could believe it into rain but I'm standing at the sink and the way the water sticks like it knows the dryness in me the deep need of thirst and drink the way I hold the water in my mouth, comforting one small concession to a past of magical thinking wiped off into my jeans