I’ve always wondered
how my heart ignites in this water festival,
it’s a circumstantial irony,
an antithesis to desires that people like to say,
they burn.
Maybe it’s all the water splashing,
all the puddles that would never become
if not for the outpour of the liquid readiness,
where my feet barely register
their own footsteps, where they get lost
over all those dripping afterthoughts,
leading me back
to that same street, the same dark alley
where I thought colours don’t matter—
they never mattered.
Yet this time, somehow,
fire happened
in a Mediterranean sky
reflected on the still ocean water
of your eyes.
Why do I care that it was you,
when I can’t even differentiate between
my sweat,
your sweat,
and the rain that is falling upon us?
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