The River

The river runs to you.
Through desert, dust and you
still owe me something; more than this.
The road that leads to you,
As long as it is cruel.
The rust and bones and trees and stones and truth.
So one by one,
each path we walk in moon and sun,
each red dust rose we cut and run from;
they lay us low, they leave us numb.
The damage done,
as every mile between us passes.
At every road I cross I notice:
the space beside me only grows.
When will you come to me?
Say you're coming back.
Baby love wait for me.
Say you want me back.