It is hard to wait until
you mean the words
you say to me.

I have dog-eared the pages,
and written in the margins.
I have waited for the words
to stand up and walk off the paper,
into my nervous hands.

While they are still, just words
I need to hear, spoken with perfect
inflection. While they are still,
just promises that need to be said,
laid in concrete and rubbed with charcoal
and paper. They must be made real.

You must write them in stone.
You must carve them in flesh,
and etch them in bone.

And I must wait, however hard,
however long. I must wait to
not care anymore, 'til
you suddenly, do.

10/01/2007

Posted on 10/01/2007
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