Poems About Waiting Novels & Stories

That night, after calmly arranging his affairs, I took sleeping pills and lay down next to him. “I’ll be with you soon.” When I opened my eyes again, there was a blinding white light. “Are you okay?” I shot upright and realized I was leaning over my desk. The girl next to me was wiping tears from her cheeks, choking on her sobs. “Emma just went off with Callum. Ugh, finally, love triumphs over everything.” My eyes widened as I looked down at the novel in front of me. It was open to the chapter titled “Please Wait for Me.” The illustration showed him holding my hand, standing by the sea, supporting each other through life.

I have been patient about everything else in my life, the career and the body and the waiting of things, and I was patient about you too, I did not push, I stayed present and I waited, and the waiting was not hard. He stopped. Waiting for you was not hard. That was how I knew. When the thing you are waiting for is right, the waiting does not feel like waiting. It feels like being somewhere. I was somewhere, waiting for you to arrive, and you took your time, and that was alright, and now you are here and the door is closed and I

And then came the words that shattered the careful web I’d spun. “Is someone out there… waiting for me?”

and informed her that I was eagerly awaiting her arrival. Taking a seat at an empty table, I observed the bustling cafe. A waitress approached, inquiring if I desired anything in particular. Politely declining, I informed her that I was simply waiting for someone. Time seemed to stretch on as I anxiously awaited Rachel's arrival, my impulsive nature growing restless. I couldn't help but wonder why women always seemed to keep others waiting.

After unlocking her phone, the context of the message instantly came into view—‘Myra, we’ll talk about it when I return. It was Sean who texted her as he was on a business trip in the United States. However, he seemed to notice that his message did not fully convey his intention, so a minute later, her phone rang again as another text with only three words was sent to her—‘Wait for me.’ Throughout Myra’s life, what tormented her the most was waiting for someone. In the past, she had experienced what it was like to wait for someone with hope before it gradually turned into despair, as if her heart was being repeatedly tormented without even having a minute to rest.

The way geological things waited. The way real things waited. ---

That night, Matthew sat on the kitchen floor until morning. It was the first time he had ever looked so defeated. In the past, no matter how late he came home, there was always a light waiting for him. There was always someone sitting on the couch, quietly waiting for him. That was all gone. The big house felt empty, and he was the only one left waiting for daylight. The next morning, Matthew did not bother to change his clothes. He went straight to the office.

Hope was a dangerous thing, it bloomed bright in your chest, only to twist into darkness, into something dangerous until you gave up, until there was nothing left to take, and it left you an empty shell of the person you used to be. Cinderblock walls with scratched names, tally marks, and obscenities from those that came before him, stared back at him. The sweat, mildew, and ammonia was heavy in the air, almost damp with the little circulation present. The worst part was the waiting. Listening to grown men pray, curse, and sometimes cry before their names were called, made the waiting seem longer.

Cause if one day you wake up and find that you’re missing me And your heart starts to wonder where on this earth I could be Thinking maybe you’ll come back here to the place that we’d meet And you’ll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street So I’m not moving, I’m not moving Policeman says, “Son, you can’t stay here.” I said, “There’s someone I’m waiting for if it’s a day, a month, a year. Gotta stand my ground even if it rains or snows. If she changes her mind this is the first place she will go.”

That very summit looked so far away. The wind howled through the lower branches of the majestic trees and through half opened tents. Men gathered around fires, sat and sang songs: Green green grass & willows; Weaving my sorrow. My yearning for thee. My yearning for thee. My yearning for thee. Quietly waiting for your return. Quietly waiting for your return. Tell me, my dear. Won't you come home? Won't you come home? Your homeland is longing for thee. Your homeland is longing for thee.