Bent willow by the rushing water

Days spent in the quiet ache of waiting
Pressed lip consonants and soft wet vowels
Dull repetition needed to bring us together
The possible made real by the simple choice
Again and again
Of you

The days ticking by which promise some future yes
Lost in the drift
Of seconds ripping
On razor wings
Each moment an agonize
In which the only balm is the thought of you

Though through the haze of fogged up desire
Still
Quietly I bleed
Patters against the tile
Curling steam in a chill air

How dangerous the need
To have you by my side
I feel myself rushing to you
And wish
I could see you
Rushing to me