what a waste of time
to sleep
when thoughts of you
should have laid siege to my heart—
an army of rightful heirs,
ready to tear down
fortress walls:
thick, stubborn, strong.

what a waste of sight
to look at flowers,
to sit with sunsets,
to watch the sapphire sky,
to see my own shadow
cast by a full moon—
and still not seek you.

what a waste of nerves
to meet your eyes
with a throbbing heart,
your hand in mine,
and still be unable
to lay open my desire—
without desperation,
without shame.

what a waste of language
to never write a song
that could make you stop
in a crowded street,
during rush hour,
against the tide of bodies—
and think of your mother’s touch.

what a waste of god
to not raise my hands,
to not bow my head,
to not beg for you—
to accept a life
without you.

what a waste of love
to forget you
faster than the desert
swallows the first raindrop—
that took a village years
to pray for.