A collection of poems written from the margins
It is lovely
when someone waits for you -
a figure held in time,
a door left open on purpose.
Lovelier still
when the waiting has no hour,
no signal,
no proof it is happening at all.
A waiting that does not call your name,
does not stand at the edge of the street,
does not grow tired in public.
There are places where waiting is rehearsed. Where doors open only if you arrive on cue.
Where love is safe because it is supervised.
At the center, nothing moves unless it is instructed to.
The most important thing was invisible - and now you know this by the way nothing waits.
One girl arrives on time, and one girl had to move first.