I will sit
in the waiting room of your mind
and quietly wonder
"When will you open the door?"

I dream of a moment,
when I can navigate your winding hallways,
dive deep into bottomless chasms,
and gasp in awe at luminous caverns.
I will laugh as I do this.
I doubt I'll have the forethought of Theseus.
I’ll choose instead to lose myself
in your labyrinth.

When that door finally opens,
you’ll allow the light of a thousand dreams
and the tendrils of a thousand more nightmares
to wash over me and rip me into your being.

When I find you,
will you be stooped and worn,
ready to hang up your weapons
and retire from the fight?

or will you be wearing the gloves of an under boxer,
ready to make me eat my teeth?

maybe there be a warm welcome of coffee and scones?
Or will it be a cold rebuke, a dismissive wave

perhaps we will embrace and say
"At last, at last, it's you at last!"
and laugh until we weep?

I wonder this as while sitting under fluorescent lighting,
stale candy in a chipped floral bowl on the counter.
In the waiting room of your mind I will whisper,
“When will you open the door?”

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