Somewhere in California

Can the sky take pictures of the earth below?  
   
Sometimes your hair dressers me like drops of rain over the Californian coast.  
My words fail like a biased perspective  
with your hands bringing relativism down my cheeks.    
I am no one of my own.  
   
My mind is a laden shadow of the bliss of your embrace.  
And your heart rises from my lowered eyelids to my utter view, and the fullness of your body sets softly upon my mouth to dote me with the tongue for speech like,    
"I love you."    
"You are my everything."  
The naked Latin dessert devises a dust storm to carry us drifting like the tumbleweed all bottled up within itself, whole, alone and yet one with its components,  
lips, fingers, backs, and a dancer's legs with the grip of a wrench and the warmth of boiling water after the sting subsides.  
 
Sometimes your hair dresses me like drops of rain  
over the Californian coast,  
and like the Southern swamp with the mosquito bites and the humid air,  
I am empapado by the drizzling of your being, the shower, the storm.  
   
I know the sky will remember even more than the two of us.    
If you should ever stop falling like the rain with your fingers down my back and you locks over my shoulders
and your chest down my torso and your lips down my neck,    
the sky will feel the lover's drought,  
and I will drown in its water, and flow down a stream into a lonely world.