Waiting is a love song
When the songs said I would fall for you, I didn’t believe them, but I listened. They had tons of warnings. That I wouldn’t be in control. That I’d know so fast, too fast for my clumsy lips. That I wouldn’t be ready to know. That I would have those words lodged, incessant. That my throat would choke on my new favorite: you, a four letter word. They warned me of things a person could not believe. Some parts of life, must be seen. My eyes were tired waiting, so my ears kept searching for our song. The mind is bad at timing, the heart doesn’t care for clocks. Songs…
They couldn’t warn me. I'd have to find the strength to say it, to someone who wasn't ready.
Waiting is untapped, often hated, always forgotten. I remember not planning to wait, not planning to be ‘the person’ to someone, until you. I remember the feeling, how it was: to realize I didn't want to live without that feeling. It was, it was, it was: I couldn’t even say it. It was. Until it wasn’t. There are moments when you know you don’t want to know. That I would have to wait, maybe never see it again. I just wanted to go back, no matter how dysfunctional it was, to us. I don't remember how many years it's been: 1, 5, 7, more than 10?. Didn't think I'd have to wait another 20, but maybe I will. Sure feels like God dealt that as a prison sentence, for me to learn in isolation. Some people visit, pretend, remind me of that feeling; remind me that I can't have it. I don’t want to, but I'm always waiting for them to leave, again. Again, again, again. I can't complain, at least there are someones willing to break up the seasons, so waiting doesn't feel so long. I can't say it, but they always know, know what they don't want to know: I'm still waiting.
We forget, being free—bodily—that things have been oh so worse before. We forget when we have, that tomorrow is regret. We forget, until it is too late and all the words have been said, all the things we hate have been magnified, and... poof... I guess we'll have to wait again.
It never felt fair, to me. Maybe everyone feels that way. I see my last always finding a next, so quick. And I wait. As if it only takes them a couple weeks; and me… I look at the calendar: “it’ll only be another year until next fall, maybe I’ll be ready then.” Maybe others are upset at the inverse situation. Maybe this lonesome quest is better, more opportunity for retrospect.
Still, in that desperation, I refuse to hold onto people. I hide that need in my head. Sharing obsession is a lonely magnet. Vampires are always lurking, they smell blood when I am broken.
It seems like I am moving forward, but moving on doesn't feel like a real thing. Kinda like: "be yourself." Advice that someone thought: "hmmm... that's nice, I suppose people should just do that." It makes me feel like someone is telling me: "Hey, cut that out, why would you want to be depressed." I probably asked for it, by investing my effort in being manic. The middle tastes bland, feels like an ironic time machine: "sit here in slow motion, while your whole life passes by." So I close my eyes and pray to forget all the things that happen in the slowest fast-forward moments, ask for the future me not to look in the mirror and ask: "you waited for this?"
I could tally all of my accomplishments and maybe some would believe I've done so much already, maybe much would believe I haven't begun, maybe you don't even think of me. Maybe you never did. Is that so bad, or too much to ask, that I want a specific someone to wonder what I'm doing. To place bets on if I failed again, if I became nothing: their fear. Or am I so very close to something they hoped, but couldn't bear risking a future for. Only I have enough time to make the mistakes. Risk is fun until you find yourself on the wrong side of a news-line, another statistic: "don't do this."
I think one day, if I am considered great, by someone, I'll still hate myself. I'll know that I didn't find the person who would bet their life on me, at a time when I truly was my lowest. At my lowest I was defenseless, at least then someone could have let themselves in. I don’t blame the someones for not being interested, I was near death: self destructive. One day I don’t remember, I decided: instead of toxicity, I’d spend my time between opportunities looking for joy, for harmony, for a second-third-fifth chance; for whatever it takes. I’ll hate how: in those seeking moments I felt alone, without a breath to share my weakness with.
We can hope for the best, for one of the right persons to be willing when we are. Willingness is longer than fulfillment. I'm not ready, but I'll be waiting.
