I’m waiting for [someone] you: to sit on a couch by my side, then break into song, with me, simultaneously, in sync on the third verse of Clapton’s “Wonderful tonight,” to reach out a hand in the dark, under the covers, a finger to touch my hand, like God touching Adam, to spark life, to take my pencil as I write an exploratory sentence, you saying, “there, that’s it, complete!” I’m searching for [someone] you, but you in future tense are around the corner of a shrubbed lane, beyond a fogged path, distant, indistinct, the intimation of leaves on springtime buds, a perfume promise scenting the air, the quiet current beneath thinning ice, quickening in spring melt. You in red? In mauve? You clutching a hem? Twirling one tendril of hair behind the haze, the tress twisting down your back like a hillside road, its way uncertain? I’m waiting for [someone] you. My hand inches toward a door, paused to knock, poised for a life to come. Do you hear my breath intake? Do your hands anticipate that our hands could join, we on two sides of this mist?
Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance and dynamism. He's proud to have published in Panoplyzine, Crack the Spine, Dillydoun Review, Vermillion, and more. Check out his chapbook "Once Planed Straight: Poetry of the Prairies" from Spartan Press.