| Waiting I feel myself waiting for something which needs a room away from me, distant. Unconsciously I do it, and I seem to think that I am busy, that my mind is not burning about it, but the embers are there, and they are fodder for my wooden heart, which turns into wax when the words are right, when the something comes-- then wooden once more when the coat is removed, when the something goes, when it hurts too much to cry. Some call it waiting, some call it hurting; I call it being. |
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