good enough

I am naked and lying on my back in an empty bathtub.  The tub and my skin are still wet.  My back is pushed nearly all the way towards the faucet to make room for my arms to curl behind my head.  My legs turn lazily upwards; my feet rest on the wall.  I have headphones on, and Ani DiFranco, circa 1992, is singing to me, wry and beautiful, sweetly angry and softly joyful.  It is blue, everywhere, blue, the twilight from a small window, my slowly cooling skin, and a voice in my ear.

I wished tonight that I could come home to hands in my hair, brushing across my temples, a cheek to hold against mine, I am so tired, but maybe this is good enough.