High humidity, seems just the thing here in the heart of summer and so naturally I dread the rains that signal the end.
Théo Van Rysselberghe's The Model's SiestaImpatient
Two weeks is not so very long if one is happily waiting.
Only for me it is no less than the torment of being trapped beneath the rubbles while fatigued rescuer surrender hope.
I grow certain you will not return with me in mind and the ruins become my grave.
All your postcards arrive with the hostile doom of a telegram.
I pray the phone will ring, it doesn’t.
The house is silent in a sort of respectful observation of our end.
I look at the calendar and lament for it as only been days.
I discover your note that says simply, “You’re mad. You have my heart. I’m coming home.”
My love, my care,