I am done.

I am done lighting candles
and lying on my knees
in the freezing rain
just in case of You.

I am done listening for your voice
like some hapless hound,
left alone to howl at the moon
on a forgotten street corner.

I am tired of living
(if that is what it is)
as if, at any moment,
you might suddenly call me
back inside to read your palm
or to warm myself by a fire,
fashioned just for me.

I am finished waiting
(like that poor hound),
to feel the warmth of your hands on my neck
or for my knees to buckle like a paper doll
under the familiar weight of your arms
wrapped around my waist
in circles of sorrow.

And if the gods have so-designed
that mine is to wait forever,
better by far
to wait, to sleep, to dream
when darkness comes;

to drink then from Mystery’s well,
and breathe deeply of this dream,
where I know the sweet scent of your skin
(just between shoulders and chin)
far better than Light.