What's left

A paper cup that smells of Bean
Champagne corks, electronic keys
A tiny stone without a home
Burning questions fill a tome
A glass vessel sits empty now
A shattered heart, a broken bow

Waiting, waiting, waiting for the Miracle to come

I have the strangest sensation today, as if I'm waiting. Waiting. For something. For someone. For Godot. For what, I don't know.
Nothing ever happens. But not like Heaven, as David Byrne describes it, which is "a place where nothing, nothing ever happens." It's that feeling you have when you're sitting at home waiting for company to arrive and you have everything ready and just so. Or when you are waiting for an important phone call and it's down to the last few minutes before the appointed time. The sensation seems to have paralyzed me.  So what is it that I am to do while I wait.