I miss you, and I am starved of your touch.
My need for your comforting words
is the dry back of my throat, the parched desert ground.
Your memory is a mirage, but a pleasant one, and
my dream of a life with you is an oasis.
The sands are hot, and the air
singes the hairs on my arms,
burns my feet.
I am dying, and time
has evaporated and left a riverbed.
I am dying, and lost
in the sweet insanity of my own loneliness.