No one loves

the waiting game.


No passionate lover heaves

sighs teeming with that heady lust


or pens midnight professions

of just opened soul-baring longing

confessed on paper, still tear-damp

and crinkled

in ode to seconds crawling on all fours

in the dark.


No ticking-clock skin

flickers in anticipation

without equal loathing

of the long moments spent

watching hands that

never clasp, never touch,

only prick holes in time


and render romantics helpless

and prone

as the wounded sink softly down,

against the beating clock. 


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