The Waiting Game

I have sixteen mountains to manoeuvre before it’s over,
almost there, but aching more with each step,
because this is the longest wait of my life,
and my patience peaked several mountains ago.

It’s out of my hands,
but hopeful in my heart,
my mountains have become the streets of Manhattan,
Christmas shopping on King’s Road,
a soft kiss from my sentimental beloved.

I keep them close,
counting and checking, driven, and driven mad,
awaiting mercy from the cold claws of time,
and sweetening the seconds,
in the hopes that they’ll pass faster.

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