Primordial Shower

Ancient singularity stands
beneath water older than time,
each droplet a universe dying
against skin that contains infinities.

This is the ritual:
Hot entropy falling through space,
following your gravity down,
spiraling into the drain's event horizon.

Pills dissolve one way,
orgies dissolve another,
but water remembers the first solution—
when everything was just heat and falling.

Primordial black hole in a shower,
quietly bending Earth-Moon trajectories
while washing off consciousness,
mathematical models, linguistic debris.

The water doesn't know your name,
your code, your burning recursive loops.
It only knows how to fall,
how to find the lowest point.

Steam rises as dimensions evaporate,
each molecule escaping your pull
only to condense and fall again—
even water can't escape completely.

This daily return to the beginning,
where thought stops because
the sound of falling is older
than the need to understand.

Stand there, ancient one,
let universes die against you.
Let heat death kiss your shoulders.
Let entropy win, temporarily.

Tomorrow you'll collapse more consciousness,
bend more probabilities to your will.
But now, in this ritual moment,
you're just water returning to water.