i was writing a poem about waiting, about delusions of anticipated arrivals and denied certainties of absence. i was hoping to finish it before August ended, for more reasons than one, more as a sort of remembrance than a random deadline.
i could not finish the poem. something was lacking. something was still bound to come and complete the emotion, synthesize the thought. i thought at that time that i would never be able to finish it.
and then that’s how i found the ending i needed.
You have a key to the door. And if you call, you know I will answer.