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By chris Date: 2008 Mar 01 Comment on this Work [[2008.03.01.22.14.4121]] |
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I am the desert; I am the dry earth waiting (for what it's worth) to be made wet with your kisses, given new life by your sighs, as all parched places miss the rain and bottomless blue skies miss broad-winged, soaring birds. There are no words for some things. We use them because they're all we have. So that which requires the language of touch becomes translated instead into a kind of poetry of mad desire - a fire that once started can do nothing but burn itself out. |