A Dead River is All I Want

You know those instances when we start off in the wide, turbulent currents of a river making its way downstream? Something about them makes the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand perpendicularly. Alert, electrified. Waiting to grasp onto a rare rock, I find myself panting, falling up and down, trying to stay afloat, pushed along in the intensity of the water's movements. I lay thirsting for the moment when the river will dry up under the scrutiny of the tropical sun, wanting to appease the parchedness of my throat in the tiny rivulets and isolated pools that inevitably form beneath the death of the river. I want to feast upon the corpse of the river. I want you to taste every last tasteless drop on the groaning riverbed. All I desire for, is to be dragged away by the protruding bones of my ankles so I can see you in the beads of condensation trickling its way down the limbs of the screaming, crimson foliage.