Disappointment welles in my eyes
As I battle tears and rage against
The dying of our light.
The little girl on the plane,
As he turns his doll's head around
To look at me,
And as I wait impatiently for our next one-on-one
Meeting of the minds
I etch minute poetry
Onto the back of my own heart with charcoal.
His thoughts emerge in my dreams repeatedly,
And as I carefully measure out my afternoon coffee break,
I swear I hear the slurp of his mocha.
The tingle of his voice is inescapable
And staring at his vacant apron
Draped over his chair, accross from me
Makes my heart ache to the postponed
Rhythm of longing.