I will wait for you.
I’ll wake at 2 AM, and my hand will reach across the sheet finding only the cool of fabric that no one has warmed. My fingers will stop in the middle of the mattress like they’ve arrived at a border they’re not allowed to cross.
I will wait for you.
I’ll get out of the shower and catch my own reflection, steam still clinging to every part of me, wishing for hands where the water just was. I’ll wrap myself in a towel instead.
I will wait for you.
Someone at work will ask if I’m seeing anyone, and I’ll say yes. They’ll ask where he is, and I’ll explain that I’m in love with someone I can’t yet reach. They’ll look at me the way people look at someone they think is foolish. And I’ll let them.
I will wait for you.
Night will come again as it always does. I’ll lie awake, staring at the ceiling while questions pace through my mind, asking me what I think I’m doing. And I will not argue back, because the answer was never an argument.
The answer is morning. The answer is getting up and choosing the same thing I chose yesterday.
That I will wait for you,
always.