The Sea Shell

You flick a single drop of water on the pan 

Instead of using the tip of your finger 

to check if it is hot enough and 

it is as if those feelings have never left 

as if boil in bag rice never existed 

as if neither of us were on top

and neither of us came 

undone like two shoe laces 

untangling against the weight of one hand

all at once, I am everything but the color of burning flour 

Or the wet curls resting on your chest