Broken Months

The reservoir is dry.
The lock on the safe
Was broken months ago.

I always hoped my wit
Would compensate
For my appearance,
My lackluster looks,
But she swears
She'd study lines along my face,
My richest eyes
For hours.

She is always sliding her sweet open hand
Across and down my desert cheek.

The drops
Are muddying
The dust and concrete.
I walk above
With feet clean.

-10/30/26

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