Wont You Just Come?

Waiting for you to come
And first comes the fake mist;
It starts with a foreboding
That initiates an ache.

I try to hear the new Spring Dandelions I’ve just spotted
In our small, moat like garden;
I look for signs amongst random walkers
Just outside my study window;
An old Muslim lady weighed down with bags
Reminds me of Eliot and Vacant Lots;
So I stop
And put on Music to recreate moods.

Nothing too insistent, or distracting
Bach’s counterpoint studied and ordered;
But memory doesn’t like that
And I sink once more into silence.

I start lines
First random and abstract
But their inanity causes me to sink deeper
Into self-doubt.

“Where are you?”
I’m sure I heard your voice calling me;
But perhaps you were just passing by.

The sculptor in me
Stands before the virgin marble,
But the figure can’t emerge
Until this fevered, saturated mind
Is still enough to let your shape speak to me,
Then climb out
And just be.