For hours, I sat and waited patiently for divine intervention.
I watched the sun and the moon engage in an orange-hued sultry and erotic tango.
And I waited.
This almighty three-personed heavenly being was due by my side lifetimes ago.
But I waited.
I sat with my hands folded neatly. My hair in angelic chaste brunette plaits; my born-again flesh covered in modest clothing; hands freshly manicured, void of any Jezebel-resembled polish.
I waited for Him.
I needed a word; a few words; maybe an entire sentence.
I was careful not to blink. I watched days and weeks, months and years purr kitten-like against all youth. I saw the ghost of Poe's Annabel Lee resurrect creepily searching for her gentleman as I waited persistently for mine.
But neither came.
For years after I left, I writhed in curiousity.
I was never angered by my experience.
Maybe He just forgot.
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