We play with words when we are hurting, seeking comfort, seeking peace.
Without them, we are nothing, lost souls without relief.
It is the words that bring us healing, in defiance of conceit.
A ray of hope, burgeoning before expected actions bring us peace,
That self-confessional concession, a regretful admission of defeat.
In the swift response of continued silence,
The waiting game begins. And continues.
Not wholly, but momentarily,
We stop and take stock.
Of our past loves, our future selves,
Our hurts, our joys, our pains.
We seek solitude,
To lick our wounds,
And secretly, to breathe:
The sigh of victory, hard fought but not quite won;
The loss of positioning, in a relationship sought but never certain;
The grief of guilt, the pangs of which comes in waves;
The regrets, ever-building, increasing by the day.
What does it come down to?
When one party refuses to play,
The other is left at a loss,
Uncertainties can only be held at bay
For so long, before they swirl up
Like dust mites in a dust storm.
What is the admission, if at the end of the day,
It means nothing,
Just a placating platitude,
An email lost in the fray?
To some there is no calming,
Nothing before the storm.
It is just that which erupts,
Engulfing all emotion,
A reminder that nothing is certain,
Despite all serious attempts to draw the curtain
Closed on the argument, to bring the horrible act to a close.
And in the end, the waiting is.
And is, and is, and is.
The momentum of the panic building,
A horrible tower of hell
In the wishing-it-could-be-quiet mind.
Mindfulness has long left this place,
Replaced by hurt and pain.
The seeking of comfort that can’t be,
The wishing for things that won’t be,
The aching for things that once were.
There is no single solution.
All fingers and toes crossed, dutifully,
The expectation pregnant in the air.
A text! The notification blaring,
A phone set to volume level high.
And yet, it brings more patience,
Nothing certain, no hope,
An empty note.
And here, I sit.
Awaiting the resolution,
Of my thoughtful provocation.
My dreams, my hopes, my love.
It is the loss
That I am expecting.
Of that which will arrive,
Soon enough through email,
A letter I’ll attempt to swallow and survive.
I imagine the end of this drama
Will soon be at my door,
And yet, in my heart,
I hope it’s the beginning of something more.