I will

I will wait,

not because I hope,

but because I have been made for it.

Your door is a shrine,

and I—

the worshiper of an empty temple.

I’ve brought you everything I am:

a bird whose wings I clipped myself,

a heart that learned how to crawl.

I place them at your feet,

not for your love,

but for your glance.

Time is kind only to those who forget.

But I remember—

every time the stars fall,

every time the sky goes quiet,

every time the space beneath your hand

finds me empty.

I will wait.

Like the dog who brings a bird to your door,

even when you never ask.

I’ll bury my breath beneath the cracks,

press my ear to the silence

you left behind.

There’s no shame in wanting,

but wanting you feels like wearing it.

You don’t open the door,

you don’t call my name.

But still, I wait.

Because that’s what I’ve become—

the pause before nothing.

So, I will wait for the next time you want me—

like a dog with a bird at your door.

REMI.