I just woke up,
my mind
still wet,
the retreating storm of your voice,
of words I cannae
affix,
in such rescinding whispers -traced,
as with petal drips,
and
from one leaf,
leaping
to refresh
the next,
with that last drop caught, of temperate warmth,
the
subtle taste of you,
sweet petrichor,
must you nourish the promise of embrace?
