This Morning

surely it was you

I was not dreaming

you

in my room

in my bed

between my legs

it was your neck

your chin

your jaw line

I'm sobbing

like inhabitants of

a small village, who,

after a long, uneasy drought,

hear the sound of rain on the roof

rush out of

homes

shops

churches

the town hall

jail

lift parched lips and tongues to heaven

dance in empty fields

skip stones in puddles

filling once dusty streets

you press

hard

slow

my hand makes its way

up the curve of your back, but

when it touches the hard band

holding back my husband's hair

you vanish

he is not here

I am alone and

I am not crying, but

it is raining

raining hard and

Tejano music floods the air.

Notes: 

Poetic Asides Prompt: Day 27

Write a hopeful poem, or write a hopeless poem.

Mine might be a little of both.

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