Waiting. Waiting for hours. You on the old dusty stairs. The one with the iron swirlies. And me on the bench, wishing I was next to the radiator in my corner. How I yearn for my corner. Cozy as a mouse- you might say- might choose to say.
“How delicate it is this freedom of choice” you remind me. Words are a choice.
But I still speak carelessly when you’re not around.
Posted October 19, 2009 at 12:03pm
