The Touch
I grow tired of waiting. Waiting for me, the writer, to make words out of this creative sorrow and weave a story worthy of the art to which I aspire. That's my great wait, and it exhausts me. Like I'm crippled by a numbness that tires my soul, I never seem to sleep. My wary, weary eyes never shuttering. The story is the wait, I know. I need to go somewhere. Find something in this closing world.

I swear I grow tired of the places I wait in, too. Like the all the night diners. Alone I sit, a sleep as elusive as a lover I can never kiss. Sometimes I'll stay late on a winter night and watch the falling snow. The stories are those men and women with their caps pulled low, their collars turned up against the wind. That's the art to which I aspire. But my coffee turns icy. So in chilly sadness I ask myself for words to warm these lips. But only a coldness stays, so I wait for that story. Those crippled words to come to life in a parable walk. Like I say, the story is the wait. I need to go somewhere. Find something in this closing world. So I turn up my collar and step into the snowy night and touch my aspiring sorrow.