I keep waiting by the phone.
It used to have a reason though.

But days have passed and I know not why I wait.
I simply wait.
A habit,
a force,
which makes me look to the screen at every ring,
for your name.
Though each other, we call no more.

She's not looking for a fairy tale
No surprises to light her way
No showers of kisses on the face
All she asks, is for your time of the day

Your tenderness in a message
Your thoughts of her in a touch
Your love for her in a gaze

She is not asking for gifts
No need for anniversaries or fancy apologies
No reason for dinners and movies
All she asks, is for your time given freely

Your arms for safety
Your faith in her loving
Your happiness so she can be

I love you so.
How much?
I don't know.
The sun's intensity can be measured,
but my love goes much further.
Don't ask me to write deep lines.
Cheese is all I can squeeze out.
Chocolate too, if you would like.

But only when you understand, my love, between the lines.

Is she defined by her virginity or her fertility?
Do you deem her useful because of her womb or her worth?
Or is her womb her worth?

If she made the choice to dIe without bringing child,
is she still woman or an unfinished human?
Is the accident of her gender the definition of her life remainder?
Answer this and answer loud.

Selfish you say, when she wishes to live on her own terms.
Unnatural to keep at bay, Nature.
Do you deny her the choices others exercise,
free from pressure and thoughtless in nature?

If she brings life in, she will decide all to it.
For all your pomposity you shall not
induce it or force it.

She does not threaten to extinguish but merely
ask that understanding be in plenty for you do not
can not know or see within.