With my hand on the telephone
I wait anxiously to hear your
voice again, a voice that
licks my ears like honey,
memories come back
vividly, flooding me with
longing, I used to be
better than this,
better than waiting
like a child for
Christmas, up at the
crack of dawn, awake
all night listening
for sleigh bells,
but you have made me
wild, one of a hundred
sad women living with
their eyes and heart,
sleepwalking, left with nothing
but a longing for a voice
on the telephone
to tell me I'm beautiful
and "please wait
for me" and I know
I would wait endlessly
for you, desperately,
as if you were a cup
of water at the end
of a a hot summer's day,
I am weak and wounded
foolishly hoping you will
heal me. Is this how I die?
waiting with my hand
on the telephone