Musings on Waiting

With coffee orbs transfixed on the dimming
horizon, she listens to the sound of
the sea's laughter and the breeze's ballad.
Toes buried in sand, she sits Indian-style
and waits as her night hair flaps in night air.
She waits for the sound of footsteps on sand,
and the sound of her name on his soft lips.
She waits for him to sit next to her so
she can rest her head against his shoulder
and intertwine her cold fingers through his.
But her hands are empty and she's alone,
and no one knows that she is there, waiting.
So she idly lets sand run through her hand
and continues to wait for him to come.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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