It is morning in early April. My spine’s a little sore.
My eyes, a little bruised. But so are yours.
We’ve spent all night staring out at the horizon, straining to see the sun.
But it will never come. Vacantly, my mind wanders, my hand rests atop yours.
There is a forever in the stillness, settled in the damp cling of my dress laced with dew.
Your brow is covered in sweat, sticking sweeps of currant-colored hair to your forehead,
Which is creased in frustration.
You’re getting fed up. Still, I am waiting.
Because when the daylight arrives, I will have to go.
I will uncreak my bent knees and step heel first into the muddy hillside,
And there, just across the field from my outstretched hand, you will be waiting.
With your pleased smile, and eyes glowing full as Ophir. We will stop wilting.
And you’ll say, you’ve been dreaming of me. You’ll say we’ll travel the world.
I will look behind me, where you were so weary just moments ago, and you’ll have dissapeared.
Yes! Will be my answer.
And the day will take us far from here.