We, you and I,
adjust to telephones.
Speaking, listening,
Sighing, longing.
Not that
They were ever complete;
Making the wait
Interminable.
Your writing
speaks to me.
I can hear your voice,
the certitude of your tone.
Each day ,
I make plans.
New ones,
Combining, conceiving.
I think
What will I do
When I meet you
After all these days
Rushing, running,
In a frenzy,
Thinking everything,
Fearful
Of forgetting plans
Or
Numbed into completeness;
adjust to telephones.
Speaking, listening,
Sighing, longing.
Not that
They were ever complete;
Making the wait
Interminable.
Your writing
speaks to me.
I can hear your voice,
the certitude of your tone.
Each day ,
I make plans.
New ones,
Combining, conceiving.
I think
What will I do
When I meet you
After all these days
Rushing, running,
In a frenzy,
Thinking everything,
Fearful
Of forgetting plans
Or
Numbed into completeness;
There are two kinds of waiting for lovers:
ReplyDeleteOne, where you cannot wait to express your love
hug him tightly, lament about nights spent alone
You wait to bring forth all that you have
And another,
you wait for the lover to bring the world to you
You wait to see that longing in his eyes
your own restlessness is gone because you are waiting, calmly, patiently- for the other person to return and bring you into him
Between these two waitings, none are preferable over the other for their own kinds of odd pain.
But only experiencing both can bring lovers together.