death mention

I am a desert,
dry, hot wind in your face, aching like a caress,
and your throat is full of sand.

You shovel it in, swallow
and swallow and scrape down your throat,
but always there is more of me.

I brought you here, and I hold you tight,
and you drink me in like sunlight.

I whisper in the wind,
pretty promises about summer storms.

You dig a home in the sand,
bury yourself until the rain falls
or you die first.