isn’t a room. It’s the whole house.

 

Waiting is the message in the bottle in the tidal cove,

floating at high tide, marooned in mud at low.

 

The music that waits for something to happen or end.

 

Waiting is silence before snow, emptiness before

the call from the one who could become a boyfriend.

 

Take my hand, the day self says to the night self.

We’ll sit together and watch the moon rise.