Impatient

My patience is a guttered out candle,
the wax spilled out of everything I wrote.
I despair the only heat I will ever wrap
around me is from my sweater,
or from a heater, not a burning fire.
I don’t want to own your heart
but may I again be its companion?
I sit alone on a long couch,
walk a lonely carpet;
even my cat tires of me.
I long to wear white lace again,
sit on your porch,
feel my heart leap at the sight of you.
Oh, I want to burn this house down!

Ariel