The more I drink,
the more parched I become.

Every drop of her—
      every glance,
      every word,
      every moment—

      leaves me thirstier than the last.

She’s rain in the desert,
      just enough to feel,
      but never enough to hold,

      never enough to drink deeply.

A sip, a taste,
    but always…

    something held back.

Even when I have her,
    I want her again.

More.

Deeper.

Like every drop only sharpens the blade.

Each taste—
     just enough to remind me
     of what I can't fully have. (yet)

Each sip—
     a tease,
     a promise,
     a hint of what could be…

     that still hasn't come.

I am dry earth,
       cracked,

       aching beneath the sun of her presence.

A dry,
     hollow kind of ache…
        the kind that lives under the surface,

        in spaces no one else can reach.

Waiting for relief.

Waiting for flood.

Waiting for the day
    she stops being just water—

    and becomes the river I drown in.