Still no word, and I've taken to channeling my inner Izumi Shikibu.
Which is longer, the days I linger near the phone
or the nights when I travel the road of dreams
only to hear your denial?
In the Ides of Winter
the flowers push away the soil;
how eagerly they risk the frost.
As I wait by the phone
the fragile snow has melted everywhere
except in my heart.
The moon, once so full of promise,
grows lean and dim
among unreachable stars.
The phone's shrill bell
wakes the child,
Yet I lie awake waiting for it's ring.
Someone has killed rumor;
even the 'net of a thousand lies
has no word for me.