La Selva

  

There's a grove of white oaks near a dry creek.

Heat rises in my body when I think of it...

the perfect place to die.

Desperate words fall until skin shows.

Enough to break his countenance...

just enough to bleed him.

To finally taste his salt, so tenderly.

My tongue tied to him.

His sweat, made for me.

Pressed against the white oaks,

bleeding my back with every push to the base of him.

Fabric to my waist,

never minding

exhausted from ever minding...

the dust settling on the wet of my mantle.

The katydid cries with me as I water the thirsty creek bed with my last breath of love.

https://open.spotify.com/track/3PZA2SD3CL1LUQhgkTLDiD?si=f238b2955673425a