Art of Waiting

Being a Woman is the Art of Waiting

The most unnoticed but the finest of all

You won’t find its creations on Louvre’s walls

Nor will you feel its marble breath

Trapped in the nave of a Roman church

You won’t bend your knees on the sound of horn

When its glorious adepts create in chaos and gore

In the name of God

For the glory of the Lord

Ave, Ego, morituri te salutant!

No. That’s the easy way to go.

The Art of Waiting requires living

Requires breathing

The unbearably still air

Its exhibition has no beginning and no end

Discreet pieces present themselves

In a rather modest way

Have a look at the one on the left

Observe the grace of the swan in her frozen arm

When she comes to realize it’s not the time

To stroke your cheek before you leave

(Not yet.)

And what do you think of the mosaic over here?

Can you see her longing lips begging for a kiss

Forced into a grin of the staircase chill?

(Not yet.)

And here’s a masterpiece!

Monument of fear locked among her ribs

Sculpted by her heartbeat

Pending in the void

Of anticipation

For the vibration in her purse

For the sweetness of your voice

When you say her name

For the yearning in your gaze

For the first touch of your hand

On her arching waist

For all those things

That never came…

(Not yet.)

And even though she knows

Her collection won’t bring her fame nor riches of the world

It won’t be visited by millions and showered with love

Nor hailed as chef-d’oeuvre

In an ecstatic review

She doesn’t care.

All her waiting is only for YOU.