Anxiety is a hummingbird in the throat of those who wait.
Palms wring oceans and pulses flood plains until time chokes on itself to leave the minutes battling on the brink of insanity. Each second is an entity that stands on its own, a demon to be fought and conquered. Each breath is a challenge, the air tangled in lungs before clacking teeth drag it forward to throw it shuddering into the wind. Heavy footprints echo fears on the walls, possibilities birthing and maturing and turning from fledgling shadows into heavy-handed fiends.
The door remains closed. Time ticks on.
Thunder coughs in comparison to the heart roaring across the deserted field of rib-cages. Earthquakes are naught but a shrug to the desperate thrashing of imagination in the back of bruised skulls. Waiting expands, billows, an etching in a sapling blossomed into a mural on the bark of the oak. Terror of conclusions slips into the bloodstream of unrealised futures. Imagined details swell into grotesque likelihoods, the mind’s eye blinded by staring into the sun of uncertainty.
Sunlight puddles through the open door. Time swallows itself.
Saving grace cradles trembling jaws, murmured truths shining onto the cobwebbed shadows. Learned habits of disappointment are forgotten in the face of reconstructed trust. Endearments are merely vessels of something more, the hollow affection of years past dwarfed by the purity of quaking mouth to steadying lips. Veins untangle in the heat, rapid-fire worries curling unto themselves and ceasing to exist. Tsunamis whisper, volcanic explosions murmur, hurricanes sigh in the face of this. One look, one touch, one truth: Us.