wandering lips

it is the sand. the yellow sand.
the sky seems so blue and the weather is beautifully windy,
but when I lick my lips, they taste of sand.

Lips that were not parched in the winter.
Mouth, so dry,
Tongue so brittle. 
I gasp like a fish out of water.

How strange.
How strange it is that my mouth craves yours.
How strange that I didn’t know how much I wanted you
until my lips went on strike, refusing to cooperate,
pursing themselves into a selfish pout
throbbing so hard that it pains me to speak.

wandering lips in the desert
dreaming of sinking into your lush oasis

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