THE ANATOMY OF WAITING

 

THE ANATOMY OF WAITING

Desperate—

desperate enough

to admit I am desperate,

to spill it forth

like a sinner’s plea

in a confessional

built of shattered glass,

each fragment glinting

with the raw,

jagged edges

of my need.

At the mercy

of her words—

those delicate promises,

spun from silk and smoke,

her imagery

a tapestry

stitched with threads

of half-faded dreams,

and my imagination,

a wild brush,

sketching the contours

of her desires

in hues too bright,

too searing to endure.  

The knowledge of her being

is carved deep,

a map I’ve memorized

in the pitch of night—

head to toe,

down to her core,

a terrain

I roam with shaking fingers,

each slope and shadow

a stanza

in a hymn of yearning.

This is what torments,

what mocks,

what cuts—

barbed-wire lacerations

slashing the soft flesh

of my heart,

torn wide

in the missing of you,

each gash

a crimson stream

flowing

from the void

you’ve left behind.  

Are times meant to be this cruel,

this unrelenting grind,

with minutes sharp as

splintered glass,

hours dragging

like iron chains

across my skin?

Or did someone neglect

to wind the clock,

abandoning me

to simmer

in this endless stew

of separation,

each tick

a scalding splash

against my frayed nerves?  

Waiting grows malignant,

a tumor swelling,

spreading its roots,

heavier with every breath,

more oppressive,

more dread-filled—

its shadow slinking

through the chambers

of my chest,

each parting kiss

a surgeon’s cut,

each dial tone

a cold echo

of my own smallness,

a mote lost

in the boundless ocean

of time without you.  

Please,

let the clock relent,

let its hands soften,

let the miles

crumple like paper,

and let me

collapse

into the pull

of your closeness—

for in this waiting,

I unravel,

a moth trapped

on the pin

of your memory,

wings beating

against the weight

of all I cannot grasp.