waiting is my morning cup of coffee and ink is splattered on my bedsheets yet,
there aren't many enough words to explain waiting

a feeling of wanting to tear your own skin to a meditation of glancing towards the stars above.
the in-betweens are mere sites of canvases that, for the most part,
have been created by man's foolishness dressed as a genius luxury yet i try not to give them a second thought for their fancies flee and my contentment tells of an Eternal.

push me in if You have too- may i fall into the river of unending mercy at once-
but may it be You who brings me, may it always be You who sickens me with love and yet, refreshes me with warmth.