Spilling Freshwater

I spilled you all over my life,
the way I spill water sometimes,
clumsy hands knocking glasses
or happy feet splashing puddles,
because water always evaporates;
See, caution is just a bother with water --
water always leaves before dawn,
like a welcome guest too polite to
trespass your tolerance for strangeness,
It will be thrown on flowerbeds until
the concrete outside weeps excess
but the sun remembers to carry it all
like a matron chiding spoilt children
back into some nursery above earth.

There is no sun where I spilled you
every time you knocked your head
against mine with liquid smiles,
where your words cleaved broken soil
and disappeared and men dug me up
but could not find you, like a God lost
in prayers to a wind that cannot be
plucked out except for the wetness
in all my corners, my body is a cave
that cannot stop dripping, cold always,
I did not anticipate so much darkness,
did not plan my gambols and gambles
to account for waterproofed nightmares,
so when I call you rain the next time,
my dear, know that I am blaming you
for making me rich enough
to purchase debts I can never repay,
know that I am desperate to
see anything in rainwater but melancholy
and all of you is freshwater
but under your summer lakes, love,
See how I decay!

Image Source: Andrew Salgado