Poems About Waiting Novels & Stories

Waiting for a message that's never going to come. From a woman who's already gone.

As if waiting. Waiting for me to open it fully. Waiting for the next storm to begin.

"The plum blossoms wait for spring, enduring the frost in silence." God, I want to die. I clear my throat, stalling. “Uh, yeah. So… the poet is, like, really into waiting for spring.” Silence. I push forward. “You know… waiting for life to get better. Or whatever.” More silence. The weight of it crushes me. Wright tilts his head just slightly, his fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the spine of his book. A predator assessing its prey. "That’s it?"

Koi aansu tere daman par girakar Bund ko moti banaana chaahta hu Apne hothon par sajana chaahta hu. Thak gaya mai karte-karte yaad tujhko Ab tujhe mai yaad aana chaahta hu Apne hothon par sajana chaahta hu... Aakhri hichki tere zaano pe aaye Maut ko bhi shayarana chaahta hu Apne hothon par sajana chaahta hu... I feel those lines were so true..... Thak gaya mai karte-karte yaad tujhko

That night, Nelly did not sleep. She did not wait. She did not cry. She thought. And thinking, for Nelly, was not a habit— it was a weapon. A weapon unseen, unheard, but when used… it always struck true. She sat on the bed, her back against the pillow, and whispered: “I know you will return, Adel— even if my waiting grows long, even if my suffering deepens, even if your heart hardens. I know Naomi beside you will not let you feel my absence.

The waiting was the ending. Not waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the person to wake up. The ordinary, daily, permanent waiting that was the most radical thing — the paying attention, the being present, the being the mechanism that was just a person being a person in the place they were. The last paragraph was four sentences. The last sentence was the morning.

Waiting, Aurora learned, was not a passive state. It was a verb. It was an active, exhausting endurance sport. It was three weeks of heavy gray skies pressing down on the city. It was three weeks of snow flurries that dissolved before they hit the pavement, leaving the streets wet and slick. It was three weeks of waking up every morning knowing that Isabella Voss was sitting in a cell five miles away, breathing the same air, waiting for the same date. January 14th.

We stand there a little while longer—just breathing while the quiet gathers around us and the night presses in and the echo of what almost was, and what almost happened, and what still waits, curls like smoke around the rafters. The line didn’t move tonight, but it’s still there. Waiting.

Elita Once again in life, I am forced to realize that waiting is the hardest thing to do. Waiting for someone is like dragging your body over a bed of nails. It is slow. It is painful. It does not kill, but it leaves me writhing. Time stretches, moving too slow, making every breath feel heavy, every heartbeat feel too slow. The worst part of it? Not knowing if they are even coming back, or if I am waiting for nothing, or if I should do something instead of just…sitting around and waiting.

Eleanor The cottage is small, hidden in a valley that swallows sound and memory. I sit by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass like tears I have not allowed myself to shed. The pines are dark, their branches heavy with water. The sky is the colour of old bruises, and the world feels like it is holding its breath. Waiting. I have been waiting for twenty years. Waiting for the knock on the door. Waiting for the moment when the past catches up with me. Waiting for my daughter to find me.