Dogs play this game of waiting better than human lovers. Cornered in a room, all through the day, just to see you back home. And waiting by the road just to seek a piece of bread or waiting for a kind pat, a loving voice to call their name…
And in another land there may be by the shore or at the sea or in the valley of the bees another loneliness quite like me. So I wait as the world fades and its only the page which listens to me.
Sometimes in between the paragraph while you look for that lost word or when you draw that doodle on the marginalia a pencil dangling in your slender fingers caressing that lock of untamed hair and in the smile that can be a simile or in the grace that shines through your unpolished nails like a story untold There, in that moment bereft of lipstick or mascara, you always look beautiful.