Vapor(POEM)

She's the ghost of things to come. Love, marriage and a family. The absence of which haunts more of my waking moments. I wear the smell of “Please! Pick Me!!!!” and “Where the hell is she?!?!?” At the moment all I have as proof that she exists, Are traces of perfume vapor, Restaurant receipt copies, And remnants of conversations in grocery store isles that end with the realization that she's too old for me. I catch myself pleading and reasoning with myself over this temporary infinity, Being stubborn thinking that praying for her to be what God sends me, Is a waste of prime air time. When I should be esteeming others higher than myself. So what is left? A press-conference on current events with near relatives, And a growing anxiety about mine and everyone else's life schedules.