Waiting for nothing in the cold rain, I'm sitting on a bench. It's night, and the light from the lamp post nearby dims, like a child slowly closing it's eyes after saying, "No, dad. I'm not tired. Can't I stay up with you?" It's the only lamp near by, so it's dark now, but my eyes can adjust. I close them and listen, but all I can hear is the rain. It's nice. I think, "That's all I want to hear," but I'm lying to myself.
The bench is cold, and I'm drenched. I don't have an umbrella. I didn't bring one. I'm waiting for nothing, but I'm hoping for something. I open my eyes and look down the path. Maybe I'll see a flashlight. I don't.
The park I'm in is in the city. It's a big park, so it is dark, but the clouds above reflect the lights from the streets, the houses of families eating a late dinner, the car dealerships that want you to be able to see their merchandise every moment of the day, even at ten-thirty at night. I look up, searching for some metaphor that will explain how I feel when I look at the dark grey cloud's glow, but rain falls in my eyes and I rub my wet hands into my face, trying to dry them.
I blink them open, trying to coax the water out that way. It sort of works.
I'm looking down into the puddle beneath me. There's a silhouette of me in the puddle, getting knocked around by the droplets. "It's not really me," I think to myself, but it is. In a way it's all that I was, all that I am, and all that I will be. In that puddle are my thoughts and the stupid things I do when I'm not thinking. The things I've created, the things I've destroyed. The big ones like my love and my hate. The important ones like my dreams and my intentions.
Everything's in that puddle, all the bad I've done, and all the good I've tried to do.
I look at my wet shoes. They're on either side of the puddle, and I try to keep my focus on them. I do that because I don't want to look at myself. But that's not true. Really, I don't want to look at the empty seat next to me. I mean, I want to. I want more than anything to look at that seat, but I dread it's emptiness. I want to look at that space on the bench and see a beautiful young woman sitting there, looking into the puddle between my black wet shoes and hear her say,
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
But it's not. It's just a puddle.
And the seat's empty anyway.
Waiting in the cold rain
The single street light dims and goes out
Darkness floats around me like an absence
I sit on the cold wet bench
Hoping for something to happen
For a light to emmerge from the black, along the path
For the moon and stars to peak through the ever so thoughtless clouds
For the rain to warm
To warm my heart
To fill me with joy
to cease the hunger
And still the pain
Ocasionally I see hope in a single drop
beautiful and warm in its glow
... Teeming with radient hope
But it always falls and breaks
Shatters like a glass tear drop
dripped from the face of a confused young boy
I look at the puddle being filled and my feet
In the reflection I see my life
My thoughts clearly layed out
My good and bad
All that ones life consists of
it is all there
And oh how do I hope
I really really need someone to sit next to me and say
"Beautiful isnt it."
And in this still river
This paused moment
This ceased action
This halted speach
I can only think of one thing...
One thing that constantly lingers in my mind
It is always there
Always catching my attention
And always held dear
Problems Link us...
Like heavy Iron shackles
Humor Joins us...
Like hands interlocked
Needs bring us together...
Like comforting hugs
Desire entangles us...
Like intimate sex
But love merges us...
Like two souls, becoming one