Waiting


Waiting is this damned abyss
where is await your touch.
For the warmth of your body
to cascade against mine.
Letting us burn the wick of life,
until we too, flicker and die out.
But here I sit, upon the bed we once laid,
and still wait for you to come back.
So that I may rest my working hands
on the softness of your breasts.
And my lips again to kiss,
the nape of your exposed.
Letting us flow together,
and allowing me to transfer
your grace to memories,
in hopes that when you must go,
it hurts a little less.
But still my body aches,
my fingers numb,
and my heart strains,
waiting to be set free.
Capable, whenever you may return.

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