Poems About Waiting Novels & Stories

Now silence kept the delicate balance he'd struggled to maintain. He shut the computer in mid-air, then paused. One more thought floated up, uninvited. Maybe she’s next in line. The concept was both hope and poison. Waiting like he had waited. Holding space. Not quite moving on. He understood the dangers of idealizing grief. Waiting came in many disguises, not all were loyal. He opened up the laptop again. The next draft care free

He thought: the bench has been waiting since Ellie drew it. He thought about all the honest elements waiting — the corner step and the kitchen hatch and the corridor sill in the school and all the honest elements in all the honest rooms still waiting for the attending bodies that would confirm them. He thought about the waiting as the preparation — the room waiting for the person the way December waited for the light. He thought: the honest element waits without impatience. He thought: waiting is part of the preparation. He was glad. End of Chapter Two Hundred and Forty-Three

I don't know how to leave. And then, maybe, to wait. Not passively. Not with resignation. But with the particular quality of waiting that is actually a kind of listening listening for the small, unremarkable sound of tomorrow beginning. The slow graying of a window. The first bird, oblivious and indifferent, deciding the night is over. I wait. And somewhere in the apartment, the darkness shifts almost imperceptibly, barely worth noting and I note it anyway.

Fearful. Waiting.

I don't wanna die, princess. I don't. ...... Waiting is maybe the most excruciating thing ever invented in the world, if to say that it was been invented or created. It was a mere concept after all. In the in between of your waiting time, many things could go wrong; things that could change the entire game plan. I always hated waiting. I was born impatient, didn't even wait for the doctor's hand to slap me before I wailed into ear shattering cries. The time wasted for something you don't even know if would come. Your heart that don't stop from thumping, from racing and from worrying for the worst to come. It all makes me ill.

Ancient. And waiting.

I am a candle burning for you, My heart is aflame with ardor for you, Yet you shall never come home, My gleaming pearl, my dearest heart, I waitI wait in the darkness, burning bright into the night, Hoping against hope you will find your way home. She had been too young to understand the look between her parents then, the softening gazes, the intimate secrets that lingered in the air unspoken between them.

Will wait for him to wake up, but when?

Not waiting for conclusion. Waiting for the first “I” that had never existed before to realize it was about to be born.

But not tomorrow. *I understand,* she says. *I have been waiting—* *I know,* I say. *A little longer,* she says. Not impatient. The specific patience of someone who has been waiting so long that the end of the wait is visible and the visibility has changed the character of the waiting. *A little longer,* I confirm. *I will be here,* she says. *I know,* I say. The contact closes. I sit in the garden for a long time after, with the warm stone under my hands and the city humming around me and Caldenveil doing its morning work below the ridge.