The Drought

Say, if I told you,
I’m listening to sad songs,
songs of departures
and I’m drunk and I’m alone.
Would your chest fill, too
as if with swirling winds
of a storm; your heart,
will it clutch in desperation
as before the tearing?

I have tried and tried,
and I wanted to tell you:
I want to wake up beside you again.
Or, I want to feel the rough
stubble of your cheeks on my skin.
And, I don’t want to forget
the sound of your laughter.

Inside, my chest
is an ocean of tears,
rolling and pitching and never still.
But my eyes are dry,
and my throat is parched.

And we are both silent.