I, worlds apart,
Who perambulates this pied-à-terre,
Am at night stilled when I see that distant planet—your heart,
And I know only your love can take me there…
Once upon I time…I didn’t know you to exist;
I thought I was living life, but must’ve been doped off some hallucinogen,
Until my nerves found succor from the seeping of your mist,
The girl through whom the evanescent finds life again,
The sight of whom spurs the Laodicean from his perch of listlessness,
Possibly saving him from a harrowing end,
You—you are the reason...for my being so assiduous,
For I want desperately our story to not be one of fiction.
I, worlds apart,
Who perambulates this pied-à-terre,
Refuse to believe—no, I simply cannot—
That you just don’t, nor could ever grow to care.
Time fleeted with no respite,
Leaving you with little to no memories of me,
Like trying to recall a dream from the previous night;
It’s hard to fetch that which hasn’t availed itself to Memory—
Honestly, Gen, you forgetting me is a sore fright
And I pray every day for that not to become a reality.
You, angel afar,
Alive with such effulgence,
To reach you, estoy listo embarcar;
I’d streak across a thousand galaxies, leaving in its tracks my imprints.
For far too long...I’ve been kept at dreams’ reach of you,
Bound by the perimeter of this fantastical realm…
While I, in my frustration, brood and stew,
Thinking how I can wrest Fate of her place at my ship’s helm—
Would I have to stage History’s greatest coup?
Or do I have to depend upon that which is more seldom:
You coming full circle—is that something you’d be willing to do?
Could you save me from spending the rest of my life in these doldrums?
Unwritten is the story of you and me,
But I’ve seen the cast, the plot—
The tale of one man’s emotional plea,
To the woman he’d someday hope to besot,
In the end, though, Love would claim yet another victory—
In contrast to past stories, a more favorable dénoument.
Alive to me, still, is our story yet to be written,
Yet to be pantomimed on the world’s stage…
However, I can’t force the ink from this here pen,
If you don’t want your name beside mine upon this blank page.
At the end of each day, however, it’s about what you want;
I alone can’t will myself to your glory,
Nor would it behoove me to continually haunt,
With shades only apparently I can see…
Maybe it’s not you I’m destined to gallant—
But I still believe in the place…renown for thaumaturgy;
Still I play sycophant,
To He whom performed His first miracle at the wedding in Galilee,
I know when you first said no you were adamant,
And even if you are, still, whenever you’re ready...
God will be in the midst if and when we come together and finally agree.
I, worlds apart,
Who perambulates this pied-à-terre,
Am at night stilled by that distant planet—your heart,
And I’m hopeful that, someday, your love…will take me there.
- Kevin B. Waring
