the wait.

I wait. I am waiting again.

And thinking of the sound of keys.

My heart beats match the footsteps

outside the door and pounds a little harder

each time I hear the wrong door slam.

We are all compartamentalized 

tucked and hidden to the naked eye

but what lies inside is heinous.

The perfectionist doesn't rest

and the glass is still half empty 

I compare you and contrast you

to the last life I lived

and remember nights of cosmopolitans

and wooden floors

and smile to myself knowing I left behind

teardrops all over the streets of New York 

2003