Waiting

Here.

Here I stand.

Here I stand waiting.

 

Waiting for you. Waiting for something, anything.

Waiting for time to change, to pass, to come again.

To see you and everything around me become what it was once before.

Grasping for the wavering memories as they slowly, softly disappear.

Holding onto the nothing that I have left.

 

The nothing that has gravitated into something.

A comforting solace of emptiness.

Even my own being can no longer be found in this.

This, which appears as it is but never as it was.

Was I ever really a part of this?

Did I ever really fill the void that now exists?

How can the something cycle back into nothing?

 

Back.

Back again.

Back again for more.

 

More love, more time, more you.

You who never left but never came.

You who stole my dreams, my heart, my soul

And turned them into dust—

Flowing aimlessly, without purpose, without cause.

 

What is purpose without love?

What is purpose without you?

Purpose cannot, does not, exist without reason.

What reason have I to continue on? To continue waiting?

Standing here without purpose is like an ache that won’t stop aching.

Nothing to be done, but fight against the pain or . . . 

Or flow with the ache and see where it leads.

 

Leading you.

Leading you here, next to me. While I stand and wait.

Waiting, flowing, standing they are all the same.

They seem so different from one another, but in fact, no.

In truth, they represent one another so purely that they become one another.

There is no difference, no difference at all.

Save the difference of opinion.

 

The opinion of one is conceivably the identity of the other, but how would they ever know?

They have no consciousness of their own.

They are merely thoughts thought up by a thinker.

The actions hold the same essence, essence of being of thinking,

Of waiting.

 

Waiting where I am.

Standing where I wait.

Where?