nameless poem. So called because it has no name. although i 'spose it's name is "nameless poem" now (stoptalking)

I could wait (you know I would)
for decades just to hear, you (should) say it,
thinking it would be the thing that gets me through the day.
But, how well we know, impossible things are just that;
moments in time, that will never occur ,
(not for me, but for her)
fabrications of occasions, lists of things I find amazing,
run from A-Z, like Road maps or phone books
(Fed up of ringing off the hook)
from the very point of every bone
through the beating muscle of every part.
And here I sit...waiting (for a change of heart?) for new breaths to start
faltering, as if by chance,
perhaps a memory will spark?
What was broken will remain, (But, then you’ve always stayed the same)
what comes of it is...
still too far away.

xXx