dust pirouettes before the eyes of the sun,
sinking softly towards an ocean of its own.
heat’s forceful palms press against the sand,
disturbing the air’s careful disposition.
but he is not watching the rich colours melt overhead.
he pays no attention to the ripeness of the horizon.
he watches her,
a grace so light in her bones it feels strange to compare
to the weight sinking in his throat.

he tells her of the winds,
the way they re-carve a desert,
its dunes reborn.
he tells her of the aajej and the harmattan and how
it rolls and rolls,
producing showers so thick with sand
they were once mistaken for blood.

at night his fingers trace,
a vague map he once had memorised,
against the plains of her skin.
her veins cutting through her wrists like rivers,
each blemish a town unvisited,
and the hollow between her collarbones,
an oasis still unnamed.