A bead forms as water cascades on the brink
of pressure while old dirt trails form in flesh.
Lips crack, parched, desperate for a drink.
Nostalgic for a time when the pain was fresh.

Falling into a hole not dark, but softly grey.
Rubbing silt away so the sun shines through.
Parchment falls into the flame, out of the way.
And I sit, and I rest, and I think about you.