I search for him in the salt-stained night
and I pray for him by the white wax light
and I call to him with my poetry:
open-eyed I dream he will come for me.
A lark on his shoulder, a rose in his hand,
a starlit pavilion, a slow jazz band;
we'll dance till the sky is strawberry pink,
the new moon so dizzy she has to sink.
His kisses are red velvet, melting cream,
and I nearly hope I might net this dream –
but I blink and my bright-winged lover has flown
while I sit alone on a seat of stone.