Patient

I was waiting,
I don’t know what for.
For the music to start,
for the mail to come,
for the black scar in the sky
to peel off,
for you to crack,
fall at my doorstep and
beg for my forgiveness.
But the music started in reverse,
the mail sold me a bad toupee,
the sky never healed
and it turned out
you had already forgiven yourself,
a week ago,
and moved in with
a less patient man.

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