Here in this room I will wait, god, for you to come.
Here, like a package in brown paper,
left until called for near a baggage cart on the train platform.
Here, like a child at the window,
who watches too long for her mother to return.
Here, in this interior room of my soul,
bare of furnishings, doorless,
with grey cracked walls and floorboards left unfinished,
I will wait.
My mask, richly painted, has nothing behind it.
I cannot find you by seeking.
I cannot see you by looking.
You will come to this real place inside me.
You will come to this dry room.
Will you come soon?