This breathing-space is fleeting, I suspect.

But rest is not for me when memory

Torments; my chest grows tight as I reflect.

On summer days, with hindered fingers we

Quenched desp'rate thirst with paltry drops and few.

Though heat to best the sun burned in your touch

Our flood was stopped by dams self-built. I knew

Your longing then -- breath fast, eyes shut, back arched.

But all has changed. You've flown so far to seek

That cool mirage, all promises, all shine,

Offering water to soothe your hot cheeks.

I'll not call you. My water's turned to wine.

     From red-stained lips I raise my hopeful prayer --

     That when you drink, you find perfection there.