It’s not a gentle wait, like watching water lazily lap against the rocks at a shoreline.
It’s the anticipation.
The nervous anxious dread that bangs around inside her wasted heart.
It is the wait of a person who is exhausted.
Mortal coils can be brutally heavy to carry, drag, and walk with.
But still she waits.
The tender moments.
The future memories not dipped in a cesspool of hatred and repression and angst.
She hates being told she is angsty.
It’s not true, and she knows it.
But it sits on her, like a cartoon anvil, only real.
She waits for the sounds that send her into a panic.
She waits for the moments that she can be alone.
She waits for the times that she will be smiled at.
She waits for the hugs.
She waits for the tomorrows.
She waits for the key that will be not withheld.
She waits for the time when she can shine.
She’s waited so long, she’s afraid of what happens when she waits no longer.