by Jessica Kim
Issue: Elysium (Spring 2012)

Down by the street light, clothed with a starstrung
robe of white,
I see you,
You with your rose-tinged halo of
tear-rimmed sorrow-clad
ache, brought forth into the night with a stroke of a match—
You stand with your hands clasped like a prayer,
drawn tight and taut, unmoving
but your eyes paint a picture into the sated silence,
of belated sighs and half-
hearted pleas for a yesterday not so far and lucid.
Eyes black and lost you raise your hand,
counting ten with each pearl-ringed finger,
grabbing each tear each wish,
letting go, each fear each kiss
down and out across a
nameless wishful sky, up and down a
broken aisle of here, I wish
you were here,
here, near, where the lingering notes of
your smiling laugh fill up the growing lack,
the senseless nonsense of a restless n—
from that window I can see it all, I can see you,
every tear rimmed with sorrow clad in ache,
with hands clasped like a prayer, painting pictures into the
beaten silence, for a tomorrow not so far and lucid.
Waiting, waiting,