The bathtub mistress

Find the same spot.
Hide the bum mark of loneliness.
Lower, lower.
Have you reached the level?
Close to memory, close to nil.
Stooping down, you have found the child.
The concrete has changed but the mark remains.
Drier, drier, the eyes are made,
from the caricatures of the saint.
My love, she cries and the moss grows.
My only, she states and the cement empowers.
The water play and the draining dribbles —
hollowing remarks of the remnants of a woman.
Mock my mind, steal my body, treasure my beauty,
but hold my feet.