Sitting On A Bench

I'm sitting on a bench, Waiting.

For what?

I'm not sure.

A bus?

A lover?

The feeling that my life is flying past me

With no intention of braking or even glancing at me as it whizzes by to finally pass?

Perhaps it is a combination of the three.

I'm sitting on a bench, Waiting.

I rest, stationary, my body is motionless,

Even the blood in my veins seems to have stilled.

But my Mind, it soars in a million directions,

Like paint dropped in water

Swirling and turning and Crashing into the edges of its Fishbowl World

Wandering, not lost,

Simply not wanting to be found.

I'm sitting on a bench, Waiting.

At the same time I am swimming in a frigid blue ocean,

Climbing a crumbling cliff

Gazing out atop rolling mountains of green, into a Setting Sun.

Dancing in Brazil.

Crying in India.

Kissing in Amsterdam.

All of these at once, and yet, none of them at all.

I'm sitting on a bench, Waiting.

The bus has come and gone.

My lover never was.

Life has once again streaked by,

Disinterested.

It always is a combination of those three, isn't it?

All my life I've been sitting,

Waiting for Them to come to Me.

I'm sitting on a bench, Waiting.

Except now I'm not.

I'm rising from that god damn bench, and I'm running.

To the sound of a ticking clock and my own beating heart I Am Running

As I finally soar by, all that is behind me scatters, crumbles, falls, 

There only exists what is ahead

That Joyous Light of The Setting Sun.

I fly towards it, smiling.

I am tired of Waiting.