True Love Waits a poem by Andrea Fekete
Updated: Nov 10, 2019
True love waits
like glass below a broken apartment
window on a wet street
like dog shit in grass. Like roadkill-body
waiting to become fur-rags.
True love waits like stoplights in hazy
rain wait for disaster
daring you to rush.
Metal impact against soft
sternum, fragile skull, both very unforgiving
of your very human impatience.
True love waits like the last cold
spit-spotted swig in the bottom of bottom
shelf whisky bottles.
Waits like Nicky by a light post in her short black skirt in light rain missing her next fix,
her life incomplete without pill-winged
angels to Fly Her Away, O Glory!
True love waits like soldiers wait after
a day dodging landmines
in the desert wait for sleep,
for dreams without bodies
coming apart in front of them.
True love waits without conscious
decision of the human who houses
it in her unrequited heart, It waits.
It waits. It waits. For her lover to return (or not return)
Every new day. Dawn. Dusk.
It waits, waits. It is no decision.
It just is.