You roll out of bed, your head full of clouds,
eyes closed.
You know where you are, without having to look at walls,
or worry of
tripping.
You can feel the carpet reassuring against your feet,
knowing that while you are standing,
you cannot drift away.

You open the door and turn the knobs,
water dripping,
dripping,
dripping,
and then gushing in torrents,
steam blurring your vision.
You slowly undress,
heavy-handed,
as you step out in vulnerability.
If it weren’t for the mist, the closed door,
and the safety of frosted windows you would not be here,
here in the bathroom.

The terracotta tiles are cool against your bare feet,
shocking the last tendrils of
comfortable, wafting sleep from your mind.
Your unclothed shoulders brush the door as you enter the chamber,
and you shut the gate.
Immediately, sleep beckons.
The shroud of warm steam coats your skin,
and you almost fall back onto consoling  slumber.
Once again the only solace for your awakeness is the cold floor,
slowly heating.

And then, like a whip, you realize water.
All around, whispering along your skin,
soaking through to your bones.
Tendrils of soothing water cascade along your shoulders,
tangling your hair while you run your fingers through it.

Everything goes a few shades darker
as you enter the zone that thaws your weary thoughts.
Everything becomes numb and a shudder goes through your body
and your world begins to spin and suddenly
everything stops.

The cubicle crashes down around you as the water turns to cold.
The downpour has nothing more to offer.
You exit the chamber and wrap yourself up,
and the world returns to the way it has always been.

Except for the tiniest little bit of warmth.
Dripping out your fingers,
and travelling through the floor.