Photo of a pocket watch partially buried in sand.
Image by anncapictures from Pixabay

The dust circulates as the wind 

blows the sand long and short days.

When I look back in the mirror 

I see your reflection, reflecting back at me.

Yet, you are not there.

My thoughts are like a conversation between us, 

but no one is in the empty chair.

I would call your number if I had it.

If I could put a message in a bottle, I would send it today. 

But, the birds are going on strike. 

So I write in hopes of a miracle.

The day I see you, that would be a miracle. 

After writing, what sense does it make 

if a lifetime wait is no good.

I’ll be glad when the wait is over.