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,
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, 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.