Poems About Waiting Novels & Stories

The numbers no longer in service. I thought about the poetry book in my bag, the two notes inside it, brought because evidence mattered. I lay in the dark and assembled what I had and thought about what I needed and waited for morning with the patience of a woman who understood that patience, when deployed correctly, was not the same thing as passivity. It was reconnaissance.

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

I lie beneath the sheets, the linen cool against my thighs, faintly scented with something clean and citrusy that makes my chest ache in a way that I don’t yet have language for. In the past couple of days, waiting has become something entirely new for me. It's no longer the sharp-edged waiting of fear, the kind that keeps muscles locked and breath shallow. This new waiting hums, it settles into me. It feels intentional, chosen, like stepping into a current and allowing it to carry me without struggling for the shore.

Neither of them moved far from their seats. Lily noticed things in fragments: the scuffed floor beneath her shoes, the quiet hum of vending machines, the way Aaron’s thumb traced slow circles against her knuckles whenever her breathing hitched. She realized, dimly, that he hadn’t left her side once. Not to make a call. Not to sit elsewhere. Not to escape the waiting. Her mind drifted to another hospital. Another waiting room. Another young person left behind while the world continued moving cruelly forward. She looked at Aaron—really looked at him now.

Waiting for rescue. Waiting for hope. Waiting to survive.

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree and at that moment, I made a mental note to read more poems of him & narrate them to Shayla sometime. And then she launched into a full blown speech about her culture, about her ancestral norms & everything. It was really hard to concentrate on everything she was saying when my whole attention was fixed on the way her eyes were twinkling when she was passionately talking about her culture. "What did the quote mean, anyway?" She smiled shyly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear,"I have been waiting for you – for eras & eras, for days & nights." "You were waiting for me?"

Stаndіng thеrе wаіtіng іѕ a tеrrіblе fееlіng, full оf dread аnd ѕhаmе. Our blосk іѕ nеаrlу dеѕеrtеd, ѕо nоt mаnу реорlе drive раѕt; except fоr the rеgulаrѕ. I wonder whаt thе оthеrѕ thіnk when thеу ѕее me.

In the stillness of night, she waits, Her heart heavy with longing and ache, Her love lies in slumber, in death's embrace, But hope flickers, refusing to break. With each passing hour, she holds his hand, Whispering words of love, soft and grand, Her tears fall like petals, delicate and true, As she prays for his awakening, for love renewed . In this realm of love, she patiently resides, With unwavering faith, her heart abides,

Without words—‌ he held her h⁠and. Noah held her‌ other hand. Li‌ke she w‍as th‌e ch‌ild. Sh‍e almos⁠t laugh⁠ed. ‍ ‌They checked in. Then waited. Waiting. Nobod‍y talks enough about wai‌ting. It‌’s not d‍ramatic. It’s not‌ loud. ‌It’s just sitting beside people you love whil‌e i⁠m‌aginin⁠g t‌hings you do⁠n’t wan⁠t.

The waves crashed. The sun moved across the sky. And I kept waiting. Because that's what you do when you love someone. You wait. No matter how long it takes. No matter how impossible it seems. You wait. And I would wait forever if I had to.