Narrative, Poetry, Short Story/Prose

the lock

you promised to meet
me here, by the pier,
alongside the dying trees,
and across the dancing
leaves that drift off the ledge,
and plunge with a whistle and
scream.
elated, i waited:

may he be tender, may
he be sweet, may the young
man come to me, and sweep
me off my feet. daunted but
never sleepy, ill wait for him,
until the sky shatters into midnight.

the sun disappeared, and yet i
wait. fish flop and flip, birds
caw and cringe, and there i
stand, with a lock in hand.
where is my young man,
i wonder, words almost obsolete
by then, i stood strong and true,
counted my blessing, watched
the water darken from black to blue.

i always wait by the pier,
the bridge haunted by
my tears. the clanking,
they say, is my lock
banging on the rail.
phantom they call me,
but only with a whisper.
tragic they weep for me,
as i wait for my young man,
by the pier.

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