Water

Every ounce of water has been sucked out my body, winds storm that swirl my thoughts into physical existance have wiped it all away. They've turned me into a tundra, a desert. I stand in warm rain for what feels like hours and I walk into the world with an insatiable thirst. There are no tears to cry, my eyes have dried up as well. They don't serve me at this point anyway. At this point where my heart is shriveled, cracked, a prune, and refuses to force the sand that was once my blood through my veins. And I try my hardest to find the well. I dig and dig, through sand and dirt and clay in the hopes of finding a tiny stream. But only the cycle of the moon will tell if a flower will spring forth in this desert, if a root will burrow it's way deep enough to find an oasis under the cracked surface.