XI. The Waiting Hour

XI. The Waiting Hour

A Poem by Mace
"

Part of a poetry novella

"

The clock no longer counts in hours
It ticks in glances, breaths, and aches.
I sit between the wilted flowers,
Unsure of what I meant to take.

Your name still hangs inside the air,
Too soft to hold, too sharp to speak,
It settles in the hollow chair
I never left, and won’t this week.

The hallway ends, then starts again.
The door stays closed, the light stays low.
I’m not quite sure how long it’s been
But everything still feels like no.

© 2025 Mace


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Added on March 31, 2025
Last Updated on March 31, 2025
Tags: poem, poetry, love, broken, sadness, trauma

Author

Mace
Mace

Canada



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