I’ve bought another prism. This one is a large teardrop shape. I’ve hung it from the bathroom window. The string holding it is so thin, the prism almost seems to float over the dark greens of the monstera, ready to fall through, a diamond lost in the jungle.
Around two in the afternoon when the sun has just crossed the zenith, the sunbeams fall on the prism, breaking the rainbow all over the dull concrete floor and splashing over the head of the bathtub . I’ve imaged you under the rainbow many a times now.
If you sit languishing at the edge of the bathtub, one knee drawn up, an almost empty glass of wine in your right hand, waiting for the water to cool down a bit, the violet would be spreading across your abdomen, slanting towards the left at your pelvis, the fingers of the feet stretched out just nudging a bit of the yellow.
If instead, you lie down inside the bathtub, your head resting against the rim, eyes closed, the blue would cross across your nose and towards the muscles of your right shoulder, bringing out an array of your freckles. And the indigo in your hair would weave through the dark curls, almost like in a vintage painting.
I would be sitting on the floor by the window looking at your body, tired in the warm sun, lips thick with wine, strong hands spread over the uneven walls, as you sit up and call me home.