She stumbles through
a dessert in her own
head,
a landscape seeming
on the surface
to be devoid of life,
she does not see
the illusion of water
the way most men
might,
she sees him,
a mirage that rises
up
out of the wavers of heat,
never getting closer,
regardless of how far
she goes
or how hard,
a haze in the
distance
she knows is him,
dreaming in the
intensity of heat
of the relief of his
arms,
strong muscles around her waist,
musky scent rising from him
as she clings,
an oasis in the
dessert
of her own creation,
yet a mirage none the less,
a desperate need to drink
her fill of him,
even as an
hallucination,
so that she might
stumble on,
one foot after the
next,
hoping desperately that
the next mirage will
be real.
No comments:
Post a Comment