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I wait for you to walk through that door in the same way
that you sit, phone in hand, waiting for his call.
Both we two after the same things: contact, acknowledgment,
an unpressing of the pause button, but the killing difference
is that soon enough, your call will come:
You can, as you said, begin to live your life again,
having that contact, that reaffirmation, that so painfully severed connection ...
restored.
But my door will not open, will not provide me that unpause,
and though as you wait your phone chimes and you, ecstatic,
grow disappointed to learn it's another chain of home instead, a
maybe step closer to that contact, and, like the lights of your phone,
this door opens, illuminating the ground before me, and, like you,
I grow ecstatic, filled with hope, erupting with sunshine, but -
like you too, these new lights and figures are another chain of home,
a painful reminder that today is not tomorrow, and yet ...
Filled with stupid, blind hope, I look up each time:
A difference seperates and divides us, cruel as the dull sword of a headsman,
in that your hope, beautiful and wonderful and filled with knowing that
it is not vain - it is but a matter of time - will come,
and mine, knowing with almost absolution that those lights
are not to be that golden halo framing your face, not this time or the next -
yet still I look, believing, everytime the door opens, that maybe this time
my hope will be beautiful, wonderful, and that golden halo will be there.