Untitled

Not a sense in the head,
only longing too long to wait,
lengthening as the light shrinks.

Not a drawer sitting,
desires unkempt, unkept,
in the bottom, my well.

Not you I scent on the street,
head turned too far to see
my well darkened, how deep.

Not me to sit, unseat
from the heap of your feet
passing, listening, waiting.

P.S: Night falling, I thought I saw you on the street. Now, I wait out the longing.