By Tired Wait
Still standing curvely against the door, and the body has become a stationary material.
Disappointment has overcome.
No thrill of anticipation has remained, and my contented look is now a victim of gloomy, lonely, fierce nights and dusks.
Now I have nothing to be considered as handsome as ____________.
I have a shaggy coat on my head and a ragged bearded face.
I feel to be bolted and nailed into a dark compartment like some crates.
I can’t feel anyone to be my companion except mice walking hither and thither.
Nothing can be a source of consolation, and I sleep apprehensively: if being gazed at by a gigantic beast to be his prey.
Nothing can comfort me except the scrubby mosquitoes walking on my body, and they are trying to be my soulmate so did you once.
Now my body seems to be trim without hair because of sleeping without a blanket.
I still peer for something to be on my palm for your gift, but only I can find those memorable telegraphs with their poles:
which I recorded for you and nothing smells except the musty shapeless ragged objects.
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