even after wasted time
i continue
to waste
the day
away.

the blood drips
from my trembling fingers
painting red stains
upon the pages
of a chapter

a chapter
in my book
in our story
in which it has
already been written
already been read
already been
forgotten.

yet i still sit idly
with my head
against this wall
as the pit of fear
in my stomach
grows and deepens
and as the sun sets
beneath my windowsill

waiting for you.