Three was my favorite, in the a.m., when you stayed up
while I entertained my thirst. Amidst split reflections and
raindrop moans, I made the soft plea to quench the thirst.
I answered. I lunged to water my drought. I bled you dry and
called it rainfall.
Soon my fingers were tainted by your stream. Yet, you
were the valley in this landscape, carved to take me whole.
So, I drank your torrent, then called you Neretva. Rough,
rugged boy, I made you scenic, but you didn’t think so.
Farewell, to your emerald glow.
Maybe my heat dried the rain from your skin, or maybe
I breathed in all your clouds. I know that I treasured you like
a crime scene, only because I feared the drought. But don’t
worry, I’ll make it rain again. Soon enough, I’ll widen the
puncture in my vein.