Lack the truth in your cooling air like a whisper off the desert's promise
that it will bake life from our coated sand drenched homes, from our skin raw with exposure.
Your breath isn't soothing, but a hot pressing oppression like the angry sun from
a few months ago, still burning away all moisture, but not your breath, its laden with heat, and
dripping enthusiasm for how you're tasting sand on my breasts.
I'm eye full of starlight rolling on the blanket, in October,
the sun's kiss still heating my back through the soft fabric,
but you're heaving moisture, heaving weight and friction
between my legs like the desert's lies of relief, that you're giving me.