On a high and lofty cliff, scarred with grey wounds, she stood forlorn. Waiting, for her lover.

Than there is me, walking in the dead of the night, through shadows framed with dull orange lights.

On a cold mountain, where the breath turns to frost, she hides in her hut. Waiting, for her lover.

Than there is me, sitting behind a computer, facing numbers that leaves me wanting to crawl on the floor.

On a sweat soaked bed, where her long trusses toss, she wakes panting. Waiting, for her lover.

Than there is me, eating alone in a posh restaurant, filling silence with the sound of metal on flesh and bones.

We are all on the same earth, but all in a different world, but yet we all are. Waiting, for our lovers.