haunting my kitchen,
a phantom, a spectre,
a fantastic cloud.
such pedestrian dreams.
what such sexless visions,
of triumph and phonecalls and email.
send me a kite with a paper note flown up the string.
leaving the house has started to feel like a 4th grader's christmas eve;
killing time at the thrift store,
returning on fire,
to tear through the caller i.d.
but my houdini lover,
you've escaped and vanished;
the bermuda triangle,
sunk to atlantis.
i'm slowly embracing the concept of you
as a never was,
and never will,
but maybe...
i don't know if i'm waiting.
i don't know if i'm waiting anymore,
or if it's over.
it's probably over.
i don't know if i'm waiting.
i don't know if i'm waiting anymore,
or if it's over.
it's probably over.
i don't know if i'm waiting.
i don't know if i'm waiting anymore,
or if it's over.
it's probably over.
it seems like it's over.