Waiting

There are minutes, and there are
Hours -- and half of one
Already seems too long
If your hands are empty

Of someone else's skin
To fondle.
He promised me his time, yet
I still feel like a fool, asking for half a day

Of his.
Tongue, lips, heaving chest --
Like minutes they dissolve
Into mere memories. I do not

Recall ever wanting him
This much,
Such that I'd will myself
To sit idle

Waiting for him to show up.
Until minutes clump into a half-hour
And the fool that I make
Myself out of

Flutter off abandoned in the wind
Like a candy wrapper on a
Cold, cold
Morning.