Saturday.

Face pressed against the home side of a cold window, I wait.
I note every movement: every car light, every shuffling leaf, every breath of wind that could be you.
Which amber gust will you slide in on?
Your bicycle is painting shadows on some street that hasn't yet met mine;
I etch the same shadows into the window with my finger.
Night drips from the moon. I collect as much as she will give me,
and put it in a vase for you.
The bricks start to whisper, and I know that you are close.
When the darkness breaks and produces your figure,
the entire building knows,
and my door opens without your knuckles having to ask.
You are here, and I can rest.
You are here, and we rest.