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WAITING
Waiting.
That machine in front of me carries possibilities. In a morning filled
with dread and desperation, it puts for a silent hope. Yet who is there
on the other end that not only can but will answer? My chosen I cannot
reach. Even so, she is too far away to come.
I wait.
And as I wait, the turmoil and terror builds within, searching for a
breach in my defenses, ready to come broiling through at the slightest
weakness.
Searching.
Through dirty, darkened goggles I seach for a name, a number, a hope,
for there lies in another room an answer that will suffice.
I reach.
And in reaching a spill is made and the emptiness of pain splatters a
scattering of its drops on my face, easing the tightened rein I have
enforced. With shaking hands and contorted face I dial numbers that
are dear to me. Will my friend be there? Will they, too, reject my plea
for help? As the ringing stops my hnd lowers, cutting off the light of
hope it represents.
