To the Missing

She went traipsing off into her head again
and I'm growing impatient in this waiting room
the humming florescent lights and backdated magazines

You've been missing now for a few days
that place where your eyes shine is vacant
looking out behind the flesh of me

My coffee in its paper cup is cold to the touch
I know because I've checked three times
lonely and thinking are not a good coupling

I don't care where you go
just as long as you tell me the stories of your trip
fear has me believing I'll be forgotten

Pacing and wondering if I'll ever know the end of hope
I told you once I didn't believe in faith
there is far too much trust in that

But here I am faithfully worrying
believing you'll at least come wait with me
as you search yourself for meaning, and make it.

December 17, 2005

back