Humidity

My world is dry.
Towels can be flung from body to the floor,
only to be picked up the next day, ready for use.
Bread cannot be taken outside for long,
unless one truly desires toast.
The cloud drifts over the sun,
and the earth is cool.
I come back from my run with a pleasant sheen,
Minutes later, I am dry, like my world.

My world is no longer dry.

Seconds after I step out of the car, sweat beads, dribbles, and falls.
I feel only confusion at the wet, unfamiliar world.
The cloying, suffocating air grabs at me,
while the trees sway in laughter at my misery.

I pick my towel up from the floor,
only to discover that it is still damp beyond use.

I look around, glaring at this tolerance to sweat granted to everyone but me,
some naturally sweat wicking skin that keeps them looking fresh.
Whoever coined the phrase "sweating buckets" would feel foolish after meeting me,
as I would need at least a barrel.

But I have only sweat.

My world is no longer dry.