Waiting through

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An eighth floor terrace gathers wind to yield a storm
A brisk blow, callously covers the surface

I revoke my presence, but I do not despair

The terrace will catch the sun next morning
The morning sun will not drift astray

Then a morning resolves into parts of day
The day of sunrise meanwhile hides away

I look forward to the moment, but I await it elsewhere

Raindrops fall down, yet not against my window
Rather they shatter into silence underneath

I silently sustain, but I will no longer be the same