I'm waiting.
waiting for the integral fear of losing the imprinted words cast my way,
to fade.
I'm waiting for you to wash over every atom of my being like nostalgia lit on the death of a savored queen or that of a wise minister.
and by the end of time and time again i want the etched, flustered inkling to overcome the distress cause by the blink of the oceans wrench.

all i really want you ask me despite all this?

is to live.