Waiting on flowers
I am waiting for the day that you will show up at my door
With a flower for every birthday you missed.
Twenty-one flowers of vibrant colors—
Turquoise, violet, “tickled pink”—
They will spread their pedals in the warm spotlight
That will touch every inch of my cold, pale skin.
The features of my face will be illuminated.
I will no longer be the infant you left—
The life that could’ve been yours.
I am waiting for an apology.
An apology for toying with my emotions,
Like a puppeteer pulling on heart strings.
My heart aches as you
Lead me to stage left, then stage right.
Are you watching over me?
I feel your presence.
Adrenaline prepares me to act,
To search for my puppeteer until my last breath.
I am waiting for answers:
Why did you leave the stage?
Why didn’t you practice your lines?
Why did you quit on opening night?
Are you still acting?
If so, where are you now?
I am waiting for that “one-in-a-million” chance.
The chance that you were just pretending.
Every day, the chances grow slimmer.
I won’t accept those odds.
This whole time, you’ve been waiting in the audience
To be found.
I am waiting for the day that I will wake up froom this nightmare.
That we could go back to normal:
When you and I were just part of the darkness.
When I had no reason to search for you.
The flowers are as dark as the night
That consumes my body.