She thinks of me, she says, as she lies in his arms
Closing her eyes as his lips are on her neck
but her thoughts are of me
There is a comfort in that, I suppose
in the uncertain knowledge of her words
For she is my water and I am in this parched hot place
She comes in flooding fury, Spring tide heights
Salt sting tears to my eyes, receding too quickly
Wet sand clinging to bare feet,
forgotten moments, whispered prayers
And she thinks of me, she says
waking in the night to another man's touch
A comfort, I suppose
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