Waiting Room

Illness doesn't just affect the person that is sick.

Driving to the hospital feels like a funeral march. 

Pulling into the parking garage like you’re about to turn yourself in. 

The doors parting ways and a rush of stale air convinces your eyes to close,

as though you’re afraid of what you might see. 

Every visit the same as the last,

the years blur and I still have no idea how we are. 

Time forever moving but never us. 

Stuck in this purgatory

between lives.  

I know these halls like the lines on my palm.

Each turn telling a different story.

The curved path to you resembles 

the clearly broken life line that fate has stamped into my hands.

Nothing quite feels clear, 

or solid, 

or sure, 

but all we can do is wait.