Your impatience is marked
by dog-eared pages,
of unfinished novels,
never to be revisited.

It speaks volumes
and song changes during our car rides,
again, and again,
…and again.

It’s your forgetfulness;
the socks under my bed,
the half-drunk soda,
and uncapped glue.

It’s the way
you hurry me into bed at night,
and refuse to let me leave
when the sun’s rays peak through dusty blinds.

It’s your lingering touch,
your constant desire for what’s to come,
for your surprises to be revealed,
your wit to be matched,
and the look on my face,
as I wait to see what’s next.