There is inside me
a thirst that I cannot quench.
An empty well
of intangible things.
It grows in my lungs,
runs through my veins,
reaches my heels,
an eternal flame.
You just want to lie down
mouth to the sky and observe,
or be a crumb of bread,
inside the grass to rest.
It is an infinite thirst
of ethereal particles,
longings of a distant land
that we have been able to cure,
we lay down on the sand
and we sleep in peace.
But I tend to forget it,
on a recurring basis,
tenderness in the ephemeral.
The constant dilemma,
living fleetingly
or slip into the everlasting wave.
Photography by Cleo Thomasson
