Deserts are the earth’s thirst—
for you,
for the rain of your lips.
The parched terrain,
sipping and gulping
through the slender straws of thorns,
bereft of your green touch,
burns in the lungs of longing,
melting to gold,
to aureate rivers of sunlight.
The hearth of desiring you
devours every log—
each aroused, unyielding whim
reduced to cold ash,
to stardust.
They dream of your breeze,
your breath,
smiling softly like the greens,
rushing to heal their parching skin.
