Coffee in the morning 



Early Spring.
 I ask the Book of Answers
 Should I give up hope?
 „Act as though it’s already real.”
 Oh.




 I could be asking the wrong question,
 needs to be paraphrased,
 I know.
 But, how do I not doubt?




Waiting is exhausting.




I don't sleep.




Should I trust my intuition?
 I get no answer.
 „Don't ask anymore at this point“


 I hate the necessity of patience,


 but I find joy in my solitude.


 It has sort of become a secret ritual
 of mine
 to wait.


I've been counting days, hours, minutes in the process


of waiting,


 but not the seconds.


 I'm not desperate enough for seconds.
 Not  yet.




It's 3 A.M. and I wait
 I check every hour,
 make sure it's breathing
 'cause it's not forgotten
 so I look for signs


 of life.


I don't sleep.
 I don't want to miss a new morning.


He wakes up early
And in my head I follow him,
 I observe as he shaves and drinks his first coffee.
 I drink mine too.
 He doesn't know that I wait
 I don't tell it
 but I do
 I wait,


Immersed in self.




In my head everything is


 so nice,


how do I stop acting as if it is real?




(The above picture is of me, taken in early Spring 2011)




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									Category : Poetry								


																	

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