The Wait
No, it’s not her
I could tell by the hair
Nothing could come close that gossamer delight
As if woven by Aphrodite her self
Then she burned in jealousy of her own creation
Sigh! That’s not her either
Mine has skin white like milk
Flawless and free from blemish
Smooth like the marble walls of a scared temple
Like religion, she could never be wrong
My eyes keep searching for bliss
No once again
That isn’t her gait
Her feline grace pushes the crowd apart
The ground savors her every step
I yearn to the heavens for her presence
I wait still, for first sight
With every passing minute
My hope bleeds with time
My recollections of her wear my patience thin
In the silence of this maddening crowd I could hear my heart crack
Like a mirror that reveals ugly truths
Still no sight of her
She is not mortal
Not like the others here
Her redolence would fill the atmosphere if she were close
The sun would dim; her smile would outshine all celestial creations
So no,
That’s not her
She’s nowhere to be found
Crestfallen with disappointment
I retreat for today
Only to return again with fresh eyes in the morrow
Or the next day, or the one after
Waiting for her to unfold like a miracle before the faithless
I would revel in her presence
For the few moments she would walk by
Then disappear
She not knowing
Who I ever was…
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