Waiting

Time takes snail's pace
And I observe the walls
crumbling under my gaze.


The mind has moved on
to that sweet spot in future
The fingers count days.


The present has no meaning
I tumble down anticipation
My heart beyond recall.


The charm of now faded,
leaves a chasm of sweet misery
and no net to break my fall.


I check my self, stop myself
Shouldn't let my mind wander
in the alleyways of no-return.


But my mind is not meandering
It is set on that sweet spot
That waits for its turn!


I wait for the 19th, keenly, unable to put my mind elsewhere. Oh! Calender, thou must quicken your feet.