That space in between.

That space in between;

that space between the going and the coming,

that space between the ‘I’ll be there soon’ and not arriving,

That space in between the waiting and no longer waiting.

The paralysis: 
the hanging-

the waiting.

Cos he said he was gonna come home soon but he’s not yet back and I’m tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hearing it all before, hearing it once, twice, three times tired.

Tired of waiting on a half-truth that becomes truth with the number of times it’s told over and over.

I was brought up to have faith in the words people say; I want to have faith in the words people say; faith in honesty, yeah you heard me, I want to have faith in honesty. What happened to honesty?

Yet faith and honesty ain’t dragging his ass back home any quicker.

And so here I am sat waiting; the independent woman that I proclaim to be, depending on his anticipated arrival; calling him, texting, hanging-

on his every god.damn.word. or lack there of.

Searching -

for a trace, his trail, a sign, a reason, an excuse for not being here now.

Because he said he was coming and I believed. Had to, wanted to, simply must do, believe. Believe he will come; has to come, wants to come, simply must do-

come.