You will not know
how deep of a drought you are in
until you come out of it.
Much as a sailor
cannot appreciate the coarseness of sand
until it rubs the dead skin from their heels
after months at sea.
At first your skin cracks as your feet bleed
and in your stumbling struggle
to climb what seems like a mountain before you,
you wonder if you’ve ever really walked at all.
if you’ve always had something lifting you up,
propelling your body forwards without your notice.
It could be the current of the ocean
churning underneath your boat.
Its absence sorely noticed
in your current state of landlockedness.
the soft caress of fingers interlocking
as two palms press together.
They were never a matching set of hands,
but your skin misses the warmth and company.
These absences live up to their name.
They leave holes where something used to be.
And although it was never a necessity,
you grew accustomed to it.
You grew around it,
learned its presence,
and were comforted by it.
So when it is taken away,
you stumble at first.
Your legs shake and your throat is parched.
You are a boat without its mooring.
You are hypnotized by doldrums.
You are dying of thirst in an ocean.
And then came the shore.
A beach of rocks and grainy sand.
It cuts into your feet, but nonetheless
you continue to climb.
You know your boat wasn’t going anywhere.
And you recognize
Once you have made it,
past the drought of sand and saltwater,
There will be a monsoon.