Waiting

It has always been
disastrous, this
feeling of impending–

tonight I lie here
howling, claws
extended,
raking through the black,

reaching for the light.

I never know
what’s coming;

I never can
get the best of it,
the way you seem to
get the best of me,

every time.

Circling back,
I come around,
I come to you,

I ache for you,
this breakable, broken, unspoken hope–

it holds its breath
alongside me.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

0 Responses to Waiting

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Ah Jones. Why is it that every word you say makes so much sense to me?

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.