the sweet monotony of waiting.
there are always,
it feels like there will always be,
days to count down.
like dew down the side of a cold glass,
the minutes drip by,
no strength and no will to stick
to the back of time.
my own strength wanes.
i walk outside underneath a warm moon,
listen to the birds and the bugs and the frogs.
the sweet monotony of waiting,
each step forward
is thirty milliseconds closer to you.
and so i move,
and i keep moving,
always walking and always waiting.
the cicada's song gets harsher each night.