Late At Night

I wait all day, I wait all night, make stabbing motions as I write. The things I say, the things I do, they don't much matter, at least to you. It's quiet here, it's quiet now, my speakers low, they make no sound. The coffee smell, the buzzing light, these are my life here, late at night. She was just here, just days ago, now via Skype I wait to know. What will she say, what will we do, I don't know yet, neither do you. Somehow it's warm, it should be cold, I'll end this rhyming, as it gets old. Just one more line, do not protest, I wait for her, she is the best.

>For Debra C.

>By Brian