It’s Time

by Heather Rae

it's time. in the waiting,
I trace the edges
of your very faded jeans
that have lost their blues,
"just getting broken in",
(isn't that everything you touch?)
i lose track, into pocket
nothing but lint,
yet it holds more worth,
than i dare defy ,
even just in my thoughts,
just ask the banker,
i had watched each
so purposefully laid
in it's place, waiting,
all too familiar with what's
on the other side of the door,
but a daughter can hope.
it's the same but different,
roles to play, lines to remember,
no understudy, the show must go on.
that's how it's played (and paid)
someone moves my hands,
my body, strangers some,
others repeat their knock,
it's hard to unsee
what should never be.
at times crushed, gasping for air,
other seem to memorize
ugly mustard curtains,,
slightly ajar, standing guard,
only one hand not played
a stake claimed, like property
before we could speak
once sweet nothings become
words with new meanings,
i hear the voice hating the wall,
begging the room, the floor,
everything to stop moving,
but nothing past those lips,
brief visits, some want to stay.
but must leave before morning cracks,
longing for the few stolen moments ,
practice makes perfect can hold off,
yet she don't ever get it so
he won't forget,
it will be waiting, until
its time.