Can you hear the tentative, yet persistent knock
At the wide-open door of your spectacular boudoir?
I entrusted to the good-natured cloakroom angel
My travel-weary footwear and a dear-to-my-heart backpack,
Overstuffed with countless unrealistic expectations.
Will you let me sit at Your feet?
Cross my heart; I promise not to utter a peep,
Being as quiet as a church mouse on its best behavior.
All I want is to catch an intoxicating whiff
Of Your Cloud No 9 Perfume
Hoping it will rub off on my auric field,
And linger there for a while
As a fragrant memento of my fondest wish-come-true.
My heart aches with unspoken longings that only You can satisfy.
My gaze is held captive by your graceful aethereal moves.
Spellbound, I lose track of time
And bask in Your comforting Glow.
I shall tame my frequent bouts of impatience,
Trusting that, in perfect divine timing,
Silence will work its subtle wonders,
Awakening my sixth sense,
Attuning it to Your Presence.
Your lovely smile and complicitous winks
Make my days, infusing me with the courage
To tear myself away from Your addictive Vibrance
And re-enter the mundane stage of my everyday life,
Clenching tightly in my grateful hands a perpetual hallway pass
That grants me unrestricted access into Your royal Chambers.
I postulate to be taken in as one of your adoring ladies-in-waiting.
Surely, it would change me for the better.
To compete for this much-coveted position,
All I dare say is “Pretty please.”