Novel & Cerita Poems About Waiting

It was actually quite a fresh experience. I found a seat and sat down to watch them race. When night fell, the youths finally had their fun. Yet, I couldn't find the familiar face I was looking for. I scanned the group, and before I could say anything, a bouquet of white lilies appeared in front of me. As I expected, behind the flowers was the bright, smiling of a charmer. "I've wanted to give you these for a long time. They really suit you. You like them, right? You always sign your paintings with a lily."

He had never seen Olliver talk to anyone like that before ever. "I did wait. But it was painful to watch you pretending to jot down and work on something that I know would take at least another thirty-four hours." The stranger said, surprising Smith once again. How did this man know what they were working on and how long they had to wait for any reaction? "It's called getting accurate details throughout the experiment. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that since you barely ever walk out of your office. You might get fat very soon if don't watch out…"

"I know this path is a challenging one, but I'm willing to wait. I'll wait for the day when your anger fades and you accept me again." Ivory didn't respond to that. Memories of the past flashed in her mind, as vivid as if they'd happened just yesterday. The pain had already been seared into her heart. Even if the wounds healed, they would still leave scars. And once the damage was done, no apology would reverse it.

“That’s what’s confusing. I feel like we’re growing—but slowly. Quietly. And I don’t know how long this part lasts.” Waiting doesn’t threaten love directly. It threatens momentum. And momentum feels essential when you’ve been taught that progress should be visible, measurable, impressive. The world rewards motion. Speed. Milestones. Waiting looks like failure from the outside. But from the inside, it’s something else entirely. It’s restraint. It’s endurance. It’s trust without applause. There are days when impatience taps at my chest like an uninvited guest. How long will this take? What if waiting wastes time?

Arden’s POV Waiting did something ugly to men like us. Not the ordinary kind of waiting, waiting for a meeting to start, waiting for a car to arrive, waiting for a delayed flight. I meant the kind of waiting that sat on your chest and pressed down until you couldn’t tell whether you were breathing or just surviving out of stubbornness. Waiting while a king lay in the ICU. Waiting while the palace tightened its locks and pretended everything was fine for the sake of optics. Waiting while the streets outside still smelled faintly of smoke and anger.

That one sentence made my blood run cold, leaving me frozen in place. Ewan stood up, and with him came that sharp, wintry scent of his cologne. It wrapped around me like wings; I could barely breathe. He loomed over me and looked at me with a gaze that was almost solid and a little searing. It felt like reliving the moment I'd thrown cash at him and told him to be my slave. Only this time, I was the one humiliated.

Waiting for something to end. Or begin.

I answer him. Apart from me, who could describe how difficult and disappointing waiting could be. Who could describe how disappointing and tiring waiting could be? But even after waiting for so long, I had never given hope. Even after it was tiring like hell, I had never given up on him. But I don't what has my waiting brought upon me. Whether it has brought me happiness or is it the disappointment that I am not being able to describe at all. "Have you ever waited for someone?" he asks me.

Only light. Only waiting.

He didn't shed a tear while sitting on the floor and after what felt like hours, something caught his eyes—a perfectly folded note on the floor. He crawled to it and opened it: "I know what it's like to wait for someone Who never comes back. I know the sound of a door that clicks shut And the silence that follows after. I know how it feels to look at the stars And wonder if they're looking too, Wondering if they think of you Or if you've already disappeared from their view. I know how it feels to hold onto a voice That's fading in your head, To write letters you'll never send To someone who's already dead.