Waiting

[dara.cv]

The curtains are drawn.
Winter’s gloved fingers
extend slanted rays of muted greys
pressing the light,
dimming the dark.

Your shadow shifts between the slats
Creating movement in the stillness.

It paces over the weary carpet,
in the most thread worn places,
thinning the padding to concrete bone.

It pauses the music,
changes the station,
to the crackling silence
of white noise.

It lays down restlessly
outlining the silhouette
of the sofa’s tired cushions.

It traces
The cycle of the minute hand
A pastime with the clock-face
Buried in dust.

It brushes past,
bristling my skin,
to an ancient cold
that can never be forgotten.

It lingers behind
Just out of sight
Exhaling on my neck
Observing
as I thumb the book
to it’s end.

It’s there,
ready to leave.
I’m just not ready.
So It remains,
waiting for me.

[YesNo]

It seemed that in one line "it" was referred to as "your". Perhaps that was intentional. Perhaps I totally misunderstood. "It" seemed ominous but nicely conscious enough to wait.