I wait for night to fall on my windowsill,
for the sprinklers to ignite,
for the muted chrysanthemums,
for the soundtrack of crickets and engines,
for mystical winds that move the stars and
rustle something unseen.

I wait for moons to shine
dimly over me, for shots of clarity
and my reunion with spirits
in white that claw their way to my party,
a room filled to the brim with a boombox
and red whining sirens
and stomachs shaking from rumbles and coke.

I wait for dented street signs to return
the light from our phones,
for me to lick a lemon rind on windy roads.
I wait for all-nighters and Netflix,
for fast food and McDonald's,
for friends around the couch.

I wait for the end of the dusty day,
the end of the long line at lunch that goes all the way to my next class,
the end of the confusion from
cloudy chalkboards and cold light,
of stained seats and eraser dust,
of echoes of dropped
pens and phones and water bottles.

I wait for the next best part,
for the dark half of the cycle,
for sundowns and endings.