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The being I am waiting for is not real.

This is real: this pen, this hand-
writing. This chair: it’s height, wobble, stiff
against my heel if I feel it right
in impatience. there are other things

That are not real
but we do not call them things.
We could call them a humble
fall. Take my hand,
bite the apple, listen
to the sigh and sigh
for yourself. 

[image: María Aparicio Puentes]
[italicized text borrowed from
Roland Barthes' A Lover's Discourse: Fragments]