Waterless

Last night I woke gasping,

throat raw, the air a desert.

The glass on the bedside table—

edges chipped like my patience,

rim cracked, dry as old promises.

I reached for it, fingers trembling,

but it was empty,

a jar smashed and forgotten,

a hollow echo of need.

The walls tasted dry,

rough like sandpaper on my tongue.

I chased water in my mind,

a slippery mirage fading

under the low yellow light.

Sometimes the thirst isn't just for water,

but for something cool

that can’t be caught,

something broken

and impossible to refill.