• Andréa Fekete

True Love Waits

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 swig in bottomshelf whisky bottles. Waits like Nickie by a streetlight in her short black skirt in light rain, waiting 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, waiting in the desert 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. For her lover to return or not return. Every new day. Dawn. Dusk.

It waits.