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.
I’m staring at him, but I can’t see him. All I see is your face, carved into my mind; immune to the constant scrubbing of my memory. I’m trying to listen to him speak, but all I hear are those dreams of yours; all I hear are those secrets that you’d tell no one else.
I try to force you out of my mind, but your presence lingers. Those thoughts of you warm and hurt me all the same.
He takes my hand to hold, but it’s no good, because it’s not you. My body cringes, not knowing what to do. Not knowing that to be unfaithful, you must be together.
But it doesn’t know any better.
It pains me all the same.
But this will do, I’ll pretend he’s you and pretend that you’re pretending she’s me.
All of a sudden your dreams are his, his face is yours, and it’s your hands holding mine.
Not his, just yours.
I don’t know any better. It calms all the same.