MomoStark

Six hundred days without rain and the ground feels like the dust of seven suns brushed off the feet of galaxies as they passed, robes of stars pulled above their ankles as they stepped on earth. We look each day for clouds, spend our nights backwards, noses to the sky, waiting for the universe to return. We do not search for water, nor watch the grass whither. We look only for a shadow on the horizon. When the rain comes it will start as a promise, a whispered hush from one star to another, a kiss from a blushing sky to a desperate earth. It will crescendo and push us down and flood us and we will cease to be.