thirst

post-storm
air re-dressing itself in cold
I walked into the kitchen
and drank from the glass you'd held
an hour ago

I could focus on the water
say cleansed parched divine
could notice the light
the way it echoed off the rim
of the half-pinter

but all that really matters
is the way the stain of your lips
crumpled into mine at the neck;
how they became one set
one cupid's bow

how they seemed like chalk
or dustings of forensic
evidence, how your hand
still gripped the stem of body,
love; there are a hundred different ways