The Drought

 

 

All I have left to give you, my love, 

Is the memory of a fuchsia Atlanta sky. 

I give you the lightning and disintergrated love songs from a southern radio.

 

I taste the salted air,

Exhale you to the Adriatic. 

But my love, I am a bit older now, 

My tears fall a bit slower now. 

 

And you will live inside me. 

The scent of the back of your neck resides in my ribs. 

Your gaze- tucked, folded into my being. 

 

The memory of your lips melts through me. 

 

And the purification I pray for

comes flooding in

 like the rain after a  drought.