Time spills from my hands,
slipping through the slits of fingers,
splitting like feelings,
seeping from the wounds of kisses,
these furrows carved by your lips
upon the desert of mine.
Rivers run empty now,
dry tongues etched in earth,
where the thought of water
is only a mirage,
a memory scorched away.
They fled,
through the gashes of sunlight,
arrows piercing my chest,
surrendering to thirst.
No longer wet,
no longer kissed
by the trembling psalms
of your lips,
rivers without rain,
a silence parched
beneath a sky that never weeps.
