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.”

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