i am not
what are the whims that bring me to this eternal waiting. one week almost. anticipation. expectation of some news or even of your one-second breath. and yet, nothing. i do not understand. but tell myself that after all you are not and i am not. so why the wait and anticipation of expectant affection, mushy convention.
unending grief for the memory of your dry voice, childish giggle and occasional undecipherable sounds. sounds that do wring in my ears. that keep repeating itself along with naive reconstructions of some event slowly lost to time and memory.
