Novel & Cerita Puisi Penantian Dalam Diam

I love you. I had spent years of my life desperately waiting to hear those exact words. I had waited for them on those dark nights when the electricity was cut off in our tiny rented apartment. I had waited for them when my back was peeling from hauling heavy freight at the warehouse, in so much pain I couldn't straighten my spine. I had waited for them when I stared down at that slice of mango cake at the celebratory dinner. And I had even waited for them the exact moment that HR disciplinary notice was blasted out to the entire company.

The heading of the poem was ' Waiting for too long' it went like this- " How long should I wait For the suspense is becoming too long And the feeling is so wrong They say I should wait for the right time Until the good things come For the good things come to those who wait What exactly should I wait for? For I'm afraid it would be the longest wait of my life But I'm going to wait anyway I guess it is worth a wait I ' ll wait for my life to turn out for the best As I would be walking away from the worst Breaking free from my old nest

The twinkling lights below seem to dance in the darkness, a silent symphony that captivates my senses. As I stand by the window, a sense of anticipation fills me, my heart beating in rhythm with the pulse of the city below—the night air whispers against my skin, carrying with it a promise of secrets and possibilities. My gaze is fixed on the horizon, my thoughts drifting to the meeting that awaits me. In the tranquil solitude of the penthouse, I wait patiently for Carlos, the only sound is the gentle hum of the city outside. The minutes tick by, each passing moment heightening my sense of anticipation.

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

When she opened The Collected Poems of Lowoe, she saw he had already read nearly half of it. The page displayed "Bury Me in Snow." She wasn't sure if he had read this one before, so she began from there. "The water rises to my knees, submerges my abdomen… When water comes, I wait for you in the water; when fire comes, I wait for you in the fire…" She read one poem after another, her voice gentle and steady. Immersed in the words, she didn't notice when Chris's gaze shifted from the ceiling to her face, his eyes holding too many emotions to name.

Not in sound. In something quieter than sound. Presence. Connection. I let the silence hold us. There was no hunger in it. No demand. Just knowing. I spoke again. Even softer. “I am here.” No command. No promise. No claim. An invitation. The smallest shift in the night. Something that could become anything. I waited. Not to be answered. To be felt. The night held its breath. And she held mine.

He turned and left without another look back. Ivory waited for him through the night, but he never came back. The iciness of the water seeped into her bones, yet the aphrodisiac was still eating away at her from inside. She felt like countless ants were gnawing at her body. The water's iciness couldn't get rid of the heat inside her—it could only temporarily keep her lucid. She was burning inside, yet she was freezing on the outside. She was trapped between fire and ice.

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.

One broken. One whole. But peace like this? It never stays. Not when someone’s still watching. And I felt it, just beneath the silence, the next lie waiting to be broken.

"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?"