Counting new days
in trepidation
and wondering
if the promises
you made to your
self you’ll keep.
She can’t wait either
for this to be over,
not just now
but forever.
For days
every look said,
Soon, so soon, but
not enough.
For days
you spoke to her
without knowing
what word
would follow the last.
Weeks of anticipation
and near misses,
almost accidents
that weren’t.
Still, you believe
there is nothing more
that time will abuse
than time ill accrued.
And there is nothing,
nothing more in common
between counting and waiting
than the facile weeping of the past.
So when she comes in the doorway
and whispers, “I’m kosher,”
every twitching fiber
succumbs to the
desperate embrace
that waits.
And if sleep
or reading on the couch
or talking about your day
like any other day is
all that’s next
because that is
all she has?
Whatever happens,
whatever that happens to be,
whatever precipice you now cross,
you want to believe what’s already given
is more precious than
what’s kept.
Even if you get everything you want,
everything
you desire,
you’ll never be sure.
Cover art from Flickr.
