The succulent on my window ledge fades into a slow death, not for lack of water or sun, but something buried too deep for withered roots, some fathomless hunger beyond my ken and capacity. Its once plump, cool appendages sink to hollowed valleys melted from their once ripe hills.

One day I saw a girl with shining buttercup hair and gentle eyes pooled beneath her thick glasses, the beautiful face of a nymph at dawn. Her long white arms had faded to dry twigs with bulging knobs for elbows and wrists, the swollen joints of reeds dried and hollowed by winter famine. The column of her windpipe bared sharp ridges raked by desert winds.

Succulent, juicy, thick, fat, full of liquid wealth. Where have your full curves flown to and what strange medicine must I brew for their return?