A part of my skin burns,
the other patch numb with cold.
Torn between the extremes,
I crave water.
Hundreds of gallons of it.
Anticipating it to soothe,
to bless the charred insides.

There’s a puddle under the table
or under my hallucination.
I can’t tell.
I touch it with my face, dreamily.
Each gulp as confusing as the last.
I am not sure how to tell
if it can be a saviour or not.