The thing about waiting, is that the wait becomes a way of life. Slowly, it erodes into your days, like Wednesday, like Friday, and one day, you don’t notice anymore. If only it stayed that way. But all waits end, if it doesn’t, the watch ends. But, an end is always lurking around, to jerk the monotony off of the wait.
And it becomes unbearable those last few days before you know your wait will end. He will come, you’ll see and there will be no ceremony to the death of your long, nurtured wait and your loyalty to your wait dies a shameless death, as you skip from one foot to another, waiting your turn to be kissed after years or maybe months.
And, this wait, this slightly impure wait, soiled by the surety of its death, becomes a most annoying thing when you know, you wait was someone else’s time with him, ripening to fruition, someone else’s eyes singing him to attention, someone else’s love blooming into something sort of a dedication for him and you are left, waiting.
This wait, when it ends, ends that ripening and the blooming of her heart and I do not one bit feel happy about it. Who says it feels good when your prayers are answered? It feels like you made the wrong prayer.