My lips are dry
and have been for quite awhile.
This drought goes beyond
even my soul is left parched
by this cruelest and longest
dry season ever.
There’s no water for miles;
it’s all sand dunes and desert.
Nothing grows here but cactus:
sharp, spiny, prickly, and selfish.
It keeps all the water for itself.
I lick my lips
and dream up fantasies
of a sunrise in a beach,
of a waterfall in some verdant glen,
of heavy rains in a garden at full bloom.
I lick my lips to keep it moist.
My tongue brushes against the rough
patches of skin
that resemble my scorched heart.