I will wait here, at the edge of land; beneath me, tides weep in and out.
I will wait here for you, letting the salty spray cling to my face despite the everlasting sting.
I straighten my back, square my shoulders, and face the vast nothing with eerie poise.
Staring out upon gilded waters, I fail to see the sun. Midday rises, and I look to my shoes.
The ghost of a hand in mine, a memory. I don’t feel quite so lonely with him on my mind.
It comes rushing over me in incessant waves; I feel my faith revive.
Because someday, the horizon will unveil your ship from the curtain of morning fog;
I’ll be here, arms open, eyes closed.
You will step heavily off weathered seas and straight into my arms.
Until then, I will outlast the vigil. I will persevere mourners draped in night.
I will wear your favorite dress of mine,
the one with the silken ribbon about the waist.
Rushing the color of Tuscan sunsets, it melts through your fingertips and mocks
those you ride brazenly. Those you tame with brave gaze and strong will.
I will wait here, at the edge of land.
I wait upon this crumbling stone wall.
I wait upon wilted hopes and unwept tears.