waiting is
familiar, the
particular silence
of night, the
particular stillness
of music as
background to
dark. the hum
of outside and
the plaintive
whine of bathwater
down the drain.
it is the loneliness
of a blue screen,
waking up long
after the movie
finished and everyone's
gone to bed except you.
they leave you like
this, hollow and wanting
and it feels oddly
impersonal - like
leaving you wasn't
a conscious thought
and how improper
that you feel so slighted.
you are afterthought,
not worthy of goodnight
or goodbye or even
a glance on the way out.
you feel the weight
of tepid bathwater
past collar bones
past ribs, past
elbows, past ankles.
it leaks out along with
your hope, your hope
that someone is waiting
for you - it is only
you waiting for the
love you crave, waiting
for the answer to longing
in your bones and the
need that ripples
through your blood. it
is your passion for alone
yet the anguish at alone
and you are alone and alone
and alone and you wait.