stars fall like tears tonight;
the sky is black ink dyeing heaven,
and everything earthbound is uncertain,
merely shadows in hats, tattoos upon
the skin of darkness, black like your hair,
your eyes, also moonless, and
destined, perhaps, to recede
as he gets closer.
forty years in the desert. in the distance,
always, a shimmering: the promise of
cool comfort for a parched peel
flowing just beyond the arch of
leather fingers and flaked tongue.
the liquor of self, scarcely sustenance,
burned like the sand and
dried him from the inside.
now, this oasis, and he is slaked,
as he stands here under liquid midnight
while you slumber, having once again
poured yourself upon him.
having poured his all upon you,
is wishing on tears.
Unpublished work ©2005: Scott VanDeman