I'll wait until the fountain runs dry
I'll sit here into the night shivering
I'll sketch little notes,
lines,
lyrics,
that seem as though they might reach you somewhere
until I say them out loud
I'll sit here until morning
wait for the first light
like the last rites
to pronounce upon me
just because your footsteps once left marks here
and now I am a footstep
and a mark you left

I am taking my place in your history
quietly and obediently falling to order
in the background
nestled on shelves soon to be unused
perhaps one day for reference
to that time when...
that time when nothing happened

I am tempted to kill
and be killed
but since the abandon
makes no difference to you
I would rather sit here
and become weather
and water
to become backdrop
to a memory of something
beautiful