• Andréa Fekete

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. 

Rinse. Repeat.

Pictured: Andrea Fekete

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