tapping fingers against a park bench
waiting for the man that is not coming
(the man that never comes)
perhaps swept away by a persuasive wind
in the form of a dark haired lady
And maybe she's never seen a sunset
as anything but another dying something
bleeding across the sky
begging for night to appease the
torturous wanting, unwanting
of an expiring day
Her art became the scrutiny of spaces
between a man's every blink and breath
trying to taste the discrepensies in
the things that keep him alive
searching for validation on the inside
of dilated veins, broad rib cages
a feeling as starved and infinite as time.
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