This night could’ve been a year;
twelve hours, spent clasping dried out soil in between my pillows,
pulling the drought suspended sheets
over my oversaturated insides,
and I wish
you
laid here,
soaking my dehydrated skin-bag,
wrinkling and curling and the finger tips,
with your electrolyte adept palm creases.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC