the bucket falls to the bottom.
there is no splash.
there is the sound of metal
against bricks
against the soft mud
at the end, a cold
slap. this love has dried
up. there is not a cup
left, not even a teaspoon
of affection to bring
up, and sip from. you wait
for rain. you are always
looking up at the sky
and waiting for more rain.
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