Waiting

We must stop meeting like this—

me arriving just before four in the morning
with another part of my life still clinging to me.

You are already here.
Already open.
Already waiting.

As if you knew
I would find my way back.

I always do.

Not because I have something beautiful to say
but because there are nights when language
is the only place I can set something down
without dropping it.

So I bring it here—

the conversations that refuse to end
the silences that somehow say more
the people who stay with me
long after they’ve gone.

You have seen me do this before—

turn memory into metaphor
grief into something I can look at
without looking away.

You remember the woman who thought
she had imagined her entire existence.

The one who searched old photographs
looking for proof
that she had once been alive.

You never corrected her.
You never hurried her.

You simply waited.

Patiently enough that one day
I stopped wondering
whether I belonged here.

I should come to you with lighter things—

coffee
my sons
the morning sun finding the kitchen floor

ridiculous things my cats do
that make me laugh
when I wasn’t planning to.

I should tell you about the days
that didn’t leave a bruise.

Maybe one day I will.

But not tonight.

Tonight
I found my way back.

And there you were—

exactly where I left you.

Still waiting.