Waiting.

As the sun dwindles in the vicious red
of the early evening, work-worn and weary sky,
I sit by a rotten window frame
tracing my fingers over the ripples of the ancient pane of glass
the very tips of the nails following a path traced by
a million curious hands before me,
and I wait.

The seagulls judge me.

As I gaze out towards a diamond-studded
rage of an ocean, the waves juxtaposing
the romantic kiss of the clouds on the sun’s edge,
as I look to my feet and realise that they haven’t worn shoes
or socks or slippers or even another man’s flip flops
for far too long,
I wait.

The boats sail their long goodbyes.

As I look down, an omnipotent presence
in the nosebleed seats of the street,
as the ants leave their picture-perfect existences
and climb into shimmering vehicles
to drive into their being,
as the shining morning faces make their way
belatedly to school after too long in the shower,
I wait.

I wait, and as the sun rises and falls,
as the tide ebbs and it flows,
as school starts and work ends
I realise that I could wait forever

But you are gone, and you are not coming back.

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