There are no myrtle trees to walk among,
No respite when the heat is at its worst.
I place your name beneath my barren tongue –
a stone to slake this cruel, relentless thirst.
With eyes half-closed, I taste it, let it flood
my mouth with salt and honey; let it fill
me with desire. Like air, like wine, like blood,
I draw it out. I savor its sweet thrill.
I wonder – if I swallowed, if this stone
became a part of me, would I be whole?
Could I survive on just your name alone,
or would I roam this life with half a soul?
The more I reach, the further you recede.
A bitter draught: this stone, your name, my mead.
This sonnet brought to you by yeah write’s February poetry slam!