I wondered what you were waiting for,
lighting a candle and sitting by the same window
every night with the curtain slightly drawn open,
casting a narrow slant of wavy glows like ghosts
shimmering along your face.

Our names never exchanged,
we've always been strangers,
but I saw something in you
that I recognized in myself,
in anyone that lost their heart
and waits to be held.

Waiting for love to take its
unique shape before you again.
I would try and look for the pieces,
clues that may telegraph the
history you keep living the cycle of,
adding stories to anything I could see.

The bow in your hair,
maybe worn the day you met who is gone now,
the handwritten letter on the desk nearby
that you can't bring yourself
to send off or tear apart.

The quiet bedroom you shared for many years,
shelter found in the knowing arms of another,
where you whispered what you never could again,
the sound of your souls wrapped up together.

I wondered what you were waiting for,
wearing a long dress and spraying on the same perfume
as soon as the sun dips below the horizon,
summoning every spirit in the house that you cannot let go of.

Our lives have never touched,
we've always been strangers,
but I see the same chasm in your eyes
that my eyes reflect in the mirror.

Waiting for love to take its
unique shape before you again.

No matter what history we keep
moving through the cycles of,
each clue leads to the same precise place
where we reach for what is already gone,
unable to tear ourselves away yet
from the ghosts we once found shelter in.

I've been waiting at the window each night with you,
adding clues and pieces to the story,
the kiss you blow that ends the wick's flame,
waiting for the darkness to take its unique shape around you again.