we aren't moving a muscle.
and yet, it pours.
i want to run a sickle down the back of your arms and capture that moisture in a cup for me to drink.
i want to know your oil, your salt.
it wasn't just the heat that made me sweat.
drip. drip. drip.
i think of sickles and slick skin and laugh to myself.
about old stones.
while we drink, we speak of friction.