A hundred melodies can create a song
to lull the in-between spaces of
I miss you and I wish you were here.
Writers and artists can find the ways
to fill the silences after I’m thinking of you.
But I am stuck in your darkness, pleading.
Without color. Without sound. Without word.
Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.
I would compose you a symphony.
I’d author you a library.
I’d decorate entire galleries.
I’d say too much and make you run.
Or not enough at all.
Is that what you’re waiting for?
A word. A note. A brushstroke.
Any reason to run.
Maybe you’re waiting for Shakespeare or Van Gogh
to show you how you fit into my every color and verse.
Maybe you’re stalling in rain puddles
trying to hear the way the strings and percussion sing
to know if it is right
Maybe you’re waiting to hear me echo back.
In pitch. In phrase. In hue.
It’s right. It’s right. It’s right.
If this is what you’re waiting for
all of the songs and books and art
in the entire world will say it better.
But never mean it more.
Forgive me for being lost somewhere
in these in-betweens.
Drawing a bow. Drawing a breath. Drawing a heart.
Longing for you to stay.