i wait for you to appear anywhere that is not under my skin,
or under my eyelids,
in the space between my thighs when i lie on my side and rock myself to sleep.
i do that,
you should know.
i rock myself to sleep like a baby does on his mother's shoulder.
for you i wait under a starry sky,
for someone who gets the way that i birthed you,
for your maturity and my forfeited release of you,
my heartbroken relapse of painted-over, washed-out days.
starry skies add reminiscing to their picture
and i, with you, am forced to collide
crash and burn our mended memoirs, hope for a replacement
for you I wait,
my dear replacement.
I close my eyes and type you out and maybe something good will arise from my madness.
I do, I wait for you, I do so sometimes and you do not arrive and I am blinded that you are busy and I am less important so you will visit and I will wait,
wait longer and longer and then I will have missed
all the other words that could have come my way
which I deflected in the hope of the bone you may have thrown me
you teach me wiser things than you think you know, you know?
I gather wisdom from your child-like behavior,
sift it like sand in between my own two hands,
cup your wisdom as my eyes are shut and you come to me,
and I write you out,
and no one else will understand, I suppose,
but the one that will:
if it is you, now,
buy me a rose and that will be our sign.