Waiting
Sitting. The stone is cold beneath her legs, shivers racing down her spine.
Watching. The light is pale and transparent, eerie iridescence bathing walkways and old, crumbling houses.
Listening. Footsteps echoing into the night, leaves crunching under heavy boots. Cloaks flapping against the biting wind, soft exhales of breath escaping trembling lips.
Breathing. Steadily, rhythmically, calmly. Air is icy as it enters her lungs, filling her up with hope she knows she shouldn't have.
Waiting. Sitting, watching, listening, breathing as she waits for him to arrive. Heartbeat quickening, hands shaking, eyes roaming, she waits.
No promises – this she knows well. Time is a mystery and smiles are scarce. No guarantees – no tomorrows, no yesterdays, no present. Everything is molded together, time running together like spilled ink on tearstained pages.
Remembering smiles that graced painted lips, purples and pinks and reds and blacks. White contrasted magnificently, shining, blinding.
Waiting for nothing and everything, tomorrow and yesterday, dreams that shattered hopes into memories.
And still, she's waiting.