Thirst That Sticks

Sun splits the park in two,

and I press the metal cup

to cracked lips—

that sharp bite, cold but hollow.

The dents catch the light,

a bruised echo of thirst I can’t wash away.

The taste is thin, like regret, slipping

through fingers, gone before I know it.

Heat weighs down the trees,

and I keep sipping,

a metal ache swallowing

what I can’t quite hold.

Thirst isn’t water.

It’s the silence

between gulps.