Most of the time it's waiting

–with sweaty shirt and trousers
amidst people roundabout,
in perfect silence,
against a buried time that is equal to none
but the swerve of day and night,
on clouds made of dry breath,
under a starless firmament with which only
your voice could give direction, as if
my whispers could beckon;
–above a castle in the sky,
for your return, for your return