The Wait

I dream in the light of thy dying day

of soups and of milkshakes,

of comforting blankets

and of the freedom to choose the time of the dawn.

The night, it creeps up from behind a dark curtain

of roses and freedom,

and renders its loot,

drops the stars at your feet in the last breath of coming.

The coffee cups are ready, steaming

a yawn,

yielding the promise of a dawn to remember,


wherever that is.

I sit at the table armed with love for the dying

day and your body

wrapped in grass

and in leather, in the breath of a dream I have long stopped to dream.

The front door is tired of my looks, my desire

for you and the promise

of a warm cup of sand

in my fingers, my hands you have bound with your call.

On the rim of the wineglass

I can remember your fingers,

can remember your lips.

Wherever they are.

© eva, oct. 00


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