I cannot get enough water in me.
I am forever melting things:
Drenching your hands until they slide away,
I shiver down your torso into a puddle,
Panting and parched.
I am now dripping droplets all day without you,
Greedily, I gulp under the showerhead;
Duck furtively to lap from the faucet;
Arch my neck to capture the sound of satiety
As I pour glass after glass
Through the overused filter in the fridge;
Sip down too much tea;
Slosh through booze of every variety,
With a brimming glass of water between each drink.
And still I wake, dry and itching,
A crusted, crackled stack of needs.
The sunrise separates inside the transparent tumbler,
The liquid prisming sunlight into my eyes.
I wait for you to open yours, too,
To crinkle a smile and whisper,
“I’m still thirsty.”