The long arm of that dour clock,
Swings by as though it's the last stroke
of a mile long swim,
While I'm waiting to hear your sweetness, again.
The long arm of that sullen clock,
ticks like the turtle from that silly tale,
While I'm waiting to be swept aside
and away from here, by your magic again.
I don't mind being swept and I don't mind being coiled,
within the crevices of your heart,
within the cavity of your soul,
as I grin and bear with you while you try to find the words,
the words that don't need to be spoken,
to let me understand that I'm loved by you.
I don't mind being swamped and I don't mind being smothered
with reflections of you,
To be smothered by such thoughts is to me,
a deluge of everything that I've been day-dreaming about,
During those long hours of waiting to be discovered by you.
Rousing words ripple up and over my spine,
inviting me to delve further into you,
which I do. I'd never decline your invitation.
You create a loftiness of life, a shower of sheen,
That can only be viewed when you whisper in my ear,
how badly you want me to be there, folding my body,
to fit yours.
The long arm of that teasing clock has suddenly decided to awaken.
Is it mocking me now, by spinning so swiftly?
Like a top at the end of it's tether,
twirling and not looking quite like a dainty dancer,
but more like the tormentor that it is.
For now, I am waiting again.
The long arm of that stubborn clock,
steals by like the slack snail that barely moves in dew,
moves painfully slow like the last hour of an entire day of fasting,
crawls past me like a calamitious cripple,
While I'm waiting to be yours,
nursing my fragile heart that needs some nourishing,
that can only be provided by the placid voice,
the person that makes me want the time to just stop,
and take a nap.
The man who makes me want the arm of that dour clock to remain dormant.
So that I can feed my veins the very source, the very being,
That is you.