Waiting at Midnight
A love poem
It’s the wee hours of the morning, I look for two blue diamond stones fixed on a sea of expressions, a row of pearls giggling in calling me “silly”. I try to touch her delicate nails and hold her expert hands, but she remains distant like the reflection on a disturbed pond. And I fall asleep listening to the footsteps of her long-awaited coming.
Halifax, 08.08.20
