Waiting

 

It might be wasteful to write

of ticking clocks,

or even to notice midnight falling

on fields of forgotten slippers

waiting to be found.

Still, tonight,

when the lights go out,
and the bells start to toll,
a girl will find her arms reaching for heaven,
thanking God for blankets of rain.
Wrapping up 'til her skin is drunk,
she'll sit someplace
perfect - alone -
drowning in torrents of teardrops,
hiding in the downpour
so they can't see her cry.
Somewhere there is an empty slipper
made of glass, expecting to shatter

when the clock strikes twelve.

She knows he'll come save her...

Maybe tomorrow.


A lot of the time the poetry I write tends to be a reaction to emotional experiences. This time it's admittedly a bit sad, maybe a bit lonelier than usual, but the story isn't quite as autobiographical as many of the others tend to be. It was a reaction, however - this time to a moment I experienced a little over a week ago. My Nana, one of the greatest loves of my life, passed away and I was flying home to America for a few to days, to be with my family and say goodbye. I hadn't really been able to cry since I got the phone call, aside from a few moments when I was alone packing in my room and felt a few solitary sobs escape. One such instance struck me on the plane, just as we were taking off. Knowing the meltdown couldn't happen there, surrounded by strangers, I turned my eyes to the window and found it completely covered in raindrops. Suddenly the tears dripping down my cheeks felt tiny, and didn't seem nearly as obvious. I don't know why, but I felt comforted by the drops of rain obscuring the glass. And then I wrote this.