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
|
|
Author
MaceCanada
About
I'm here to share my love of writing. more..
Writing
|