Tonight I drew myself a bath.
Surrounded by bubbles and 
steam
I thought about that kettle,
the one I thought was worn
through.

I thought about that 
woman on the edge,
afraid,
still wanting, needing, 
to take that last step and
fly.

I thought about Jenny, 
crying alone in her 
bed
while John retreated to his castle
promising to one day
explain.

I want to tell Jenny that it 
doesn’t matter
why
or when or how.
It doesn’t matter
now.

Those paths you and John 
crossed over and 
over 
have now diverged, and whether they cross 
again is out of your
control.

Will he be your friend?
Maybe, one
day.
But should he be?
I can’t really 
say.

That girl on the edge might 
just need one more
push.
Go ahead and give her 
a nudge; she’s got a strong safety
net.

And that kettle?
It just needed a little 
polish 
and water from a different source.
Just fill it up and turn up the 
flame.

So I finished my bath, shook off the
bubbles and let the water
drain.
I took a look in the mirror and bid farewell
to Jen, hoping I was the one about to take that last
step.