The faucet in our kitchen is getting oldI had touched itWhen we came to see the apartmentThe first one of our married lifeThe faucet had moved up and down and right and leftTo converse withThe echo our words birthedTo give each other companyIt coughed and spitA few words in exchangeThe heads turned to see and listenPleased by attentionThe faucet began flowingWeaving words and versesWarm and cool togetherThe apartment awakenedLife flowing through its veinsCarried us into its heartIt is two years since we moved inThe water no longer is sweetThe words have become brackishWe both thoughtMaybe it is timeThings, as us, ageFaucets in particularWear and tear of motionOf moisture held withinFrom outside we fixedInexperienced as we were of inner workingsA faucet filter atop its lipsNow a switch governsThe sweetness of its waterA light blinks greenTo ensure us that everything is fineIt seems fineBut when we withdraw to our bedsThe silence sneaks inThe spaces between usThe water held withinThe faucet’s lips, like words,Fall, one by oneWith a sound lulling us to sleepand sometimes to think, ifThe water within its lipsIs sweet or brackishWe wish it be as sweetwhen nothing guardedThe faucet’s lips.