I've come to know my desert well:
the dry rocks of absence
and the finely filtered dust
of your distraction.
The water of your words
fell on impermeable disdain,
until hardened lands softened
and the persistence of your showers
fed my parched and withered land.
But you had no wish to nurture.
Now in my barren garden,
I remember when flowers bloomed
and I drank of your desire.
A word from you would quench my thirst,
but no relief from this long drought
will come today.
This is a Sunday Scribblings post.