The Desert

As the desert dreams

about the feel of rain

against its flesh

I, too, am the desert

dreaming of rain.

I see myself whither

as the desert sees itself

blow away with the wind, and

always hoping for a grey sky

as I hope for a stolen heart.

And the thought of need

neglects my pulse

as my ideals consume

this necessity of life

and longs for it,

as the desert watches

Its life die knowing

what it needs to survive.

Out of desperation
I begin to look

in impossible places

like the end of a bottle

and whatever happened

to have drowned with me;

while the desert begs the cactus

to drip its insides only for a moment.

Let me be the man wandering

through the deseret aimlessly

imagining an oasis in the distance-

I know the desert lives through me

vicariously, hoping I will imagine

the taste of water against my tongue

so that it may do the same,

but I, too, am the desert:
I hope for a stolen heart

As the Desrert hopes

for rain against its flesh

no longer thirsting for water.