3 AM Desert

Woke up. Mouth like dried dirt.

Tongue a sandpaper slug.

My throat, a canyon, scraped and raw.

The water bottle, mocking plastic,

empty on the nightstand.

3:04, glowing red.

The hall, a black maw.

Kitchen, miles away, past the creaking floorboards

and the dog's soft snore.

Every swallow, a dusty cough.

I just lay there, eyes wide,

wishing for one drop, a single pearl

to slick the insides of this husk.

It wasn’t just the water, though.

It was the waiting for it,

the aching stretch across the dark,

the understanding of an empty thing

that should have been full.