The Wait

I sat
all day
at the window.

It was steaming up with my breath,
watery with my waiting,
and it trickled down my nose, where I held it
pinned to the glass.

My legs, being too short
(just)
to reach the ground, swung.
The corner of the seat cushion sat uncomfortably
in the bare crook of my knees.
My hair impatiently untousled,
still, I sat.

I feel asleep then, unplanned
the chilled pane on one cheek
the fire’s golden breath on th’other.
When I woke up you had already gone again.

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