Surviving the Desert

Sands of time, dusting concave promises, speaking in drought.

I can recall the point at which landslides became cotton-mouthed kisses.

Now, his lips zippered at the seams, like a cactus retaining water.

High-pitched, I wail at something unable to feel—

hands calloused…

I suppose that’s what happens when you try to rest them upon a prick.

Like a desert homestead, crafted with intention, only to be gutted with reckless abandon, barren.

Desperately pounding on a boarded-up door; how I ached so badly to be let in.

Unforgiving words cast like winds against the creaky floorboards of his mouth.

Sun filtering through the cracks in the foundation of us. The way he would shield his eyes from the light. The way he would circle around my emotions like a vulture, greedily pulling at the remains.

It seems I have fallen in love with the desert again—though I have never been, I can relate to the feeling of isolation.

I can recall a time when he felt like sunrise, when the hot gravel of him did not burn my thirsty body, when we didn’t want visitors, when there were no vacancies, when he and I in an empty space couldn’t feel any fuller.

I remember our nights by the fire, when the heat of us was intoxicating, drunk off moonshine and starlight, when we were not smoke signals, when the flames of him ardently immersed themselves into my exposed striations—

when I didn’t get splinters…

It seems I had fallen for the mirage of him.

I find it ironic how the refraction of light could lead to such darkness, how the imagination could be so institutional, but adapt to the harsh conditions. You see, I was built for this.

An empty home like a blank canvas allows for creative design, because there is nothing a broken heart can’t fix.

I have chosen the rebirth of myself to fill the spaces of his absence.

This new house…this house has windows, a roof, a pulse.

This house is lived in.

This house is loved.

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