The Wait

Everything's smothered in shades of gray.
No winds stir the endless ash - all sterile, dry, and
colorless, where each eternal fleck of dust
has forever found it's final place, and nothing
will ever move or change again.

I gasp for breath and try to wail,
but no air will come to call, and I collapse
to writhe till still, then wither in the dust.

Suffocated in this lunar land,
I still hear a distant drumming heart
that echoes off the ash and shine,
so anxiously I hold and hope
and wait for her to come.

I wait for the warm hum of her breath,
and memory's gentle touch of her soft hand.
I wait and I wait for her...

The radio belches statistical sports
and beer commercials, me with my
over stuffed chair pressed all the way
up hard against awake, and you banging
on the counter, yelling that it's garbage night.

I remember brightly colored summer dresses,
and dreamlike naked nights, that
that laughed, and breathed, and hummed.

As I drag the week's neatly wrapped refuse
to the curb, and look up at the barren moon,
I remember once I heard that men
mostly dream in black and white
and then I turn, afraid to go back in.

So I sit there on the darkened curb
and wait for her to come,
I wait and I wait for her...