I am waiting to stop seeing the glass-half-empty,

the watered-down orange juice in a carton 

with a shameless ad to 

“PROTECT OUR ENVIRONMENT.”

Waiting for her self-deprecation 

to stop being my burden. 

Waiting for the educated to finally 

gain a voice in the face of doubt.

Waiting for the hand I hold dear, 

to stop scratching and scarring my back.

Waiting for you to stop decomposing in front of me, 

sinking to the ground, 

hand wrapped tightly around my ankle. 

I am waiting for them to stop blurring the two 

together in that glass, 

creating this mesh of colors 

that we cannot possibly identify, 

but are forced to. 

Waiting to stop feeling comfortably numb,

fantastically unfeeling. 

Waiting for the ringing 

of those church bells 

to stop pounding in my eardrums, 

creating a harmony 

that I cannot appreciate. 

Waiting for spirits to mean

mystery and excitement, not alcohol. 

Waiting to find curiosity 

and excitement in the unknown. 

I am waiting for you 

to finally fill the damn glass for us.