Waiting... Poem by Tharuna Devchand

Icicles bind me to the bench,
Your bench.
Faces pass, frozen in your features by my voracious eyes –
that chisel at each illusion, in hope of finding you.
Then quiet.
The sun dissolves the morning cold,
ripening hands and peeling off woolen shields as sporadic crowds pass by,
pretending to notice only their own shuffling feet as I stare through them:
Not you. Not you. Notyounotyounotyou... Not you!
Then quiet.
Shadows scatter the sun’s rays;
re-layering tired shoulders with winter armour
as they trudge along with the fading chatter of a done-day.
Strangers transform into monkeys,
invading vacantness beneath the forlorn moon.
Dawn,
whispering lullabies
as time tangles its fingers around my greying hair;
my logic gnaws holes into the bench,
Your bench...
on
which
I
wait.