Sashayed twist of hips, the stars, the key, the lips:
Those that beg for embrace from a distance.
They're nearby but so far off, it seems.
I'll remain here and sit in the waiting room of an expected dream.

It is often cold in there, but I can sense you making it warmer.
You peer in , every so often, to hasten the end of winter.

Spring is a far cry, the month of May.
All the while my mind blooms in a creative place astray.
I can only hope that in a momentary glimpse of admiration
under night shade or light of day, you'll welcome me into your arms
and ask me to stay.