What is there to do?

I couldn’t remember the last time that I was given a tool to keep going. Instead, I waited for the last light of a golden river slowing down into the ink of drink of waiting for godot and, again, instead, I waited for you. I couldn’t remember the last time we waited together. Instead I drank from a pool of water that had collected at the basin at the bottom of another pool of water. Still, you never told me you love me. And still, I had to wait to grab your hand. It was still so cold, as you must remember. No one was around except the two of us, and you pointed out into the frigid distance, where the suggestions of trees shivered under the calculating blankness of the sky. Actually it was two trees, hand in hand, shivering all the way to the end of the road. And actually, I sank into you just as you sank into me, never breathing again except in order to know you.