a whole day happens
a lot slower
when you’re wading
debating whether or not
you should wait much
longer—for her,
well knowing
that waiting
just abets the longing,
bangs and echoes pangs
bemusing to resonate and
extend the lingering
of your solemn stroll alone along
deeper into the still waters
of limbo
and on into the darker side
of what slowly becomes
eternity.
the art of love
l.m