Insomnia Edits Her Pieces (My eyes hurt. Why can't I fall asleep? Or read by the light of your eyes.)

The rain bleeds into me like a woman; I feel it soaking my thighs, and I pull at the tattered grey that once covered my body, before I had learned to lie in these chains. They let me out twice a day to attend to my needs, but in these times of drought, it's a miracle when one has enough water inside to let any out.

I was not expecting the rain. God had not told me, nor had He warned me of the mud. (What fine brown sheets.) When the messenger came, I looked like - well, certainly like nothing that could be described in polite company. But soon it was done, the transaction, the contract buried in potted shards by the river, and I thought of your eyes, and the brown thickets  between your legs that I combed with my fingers. (You never took care of your nails, and always did the dishes. I could never decide which habit annoyed me more.)

One day, they will rebuild. That's what I am told: Golden palaces will rise from these faded stones. How cliche. I told God I wanted a better metaphor, but He went on and on about "speaking in the language of humans".  I'm not really sure what the means. To kiss like a human, that makes more sense to me - and don't both activities involve our lips and tongues?

 I was never right for this job, but neither was Moses, and look how he wound up: buried in a mountain. Still, famous, I suppose. I never was such a fan of that ocean song, myself - I prefer rivers.

Rivulets of water sing me lullabies, and I feel the rust in the chains. I hear rivers when I close my eyes, and long, like a woman, for your lips upon my thighs.