Condensation

بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

(reply to "Transient Mist")

If only I were the mountains, where the fog rolls through, how amazing to feel, it condensing on my slopes, like grass meeting morning dew. It wouldn't matter how long I had, how many seconds or minutes, I'd relish every instant, surrounded by your mist. And no, that stone, my face, wouldst never remain the same, whether tracks from salty eyes, or just the accrued impressions, of years and hopes still growing, still developing, no inch of mine would remain dry, never to evaporate, for even stone can soak such rain, deep inside itself every drop it takes, so it might fill the heart, might fill my lake, keeping fresh upon the tongue, the sweetness of a thing I've always chased.