The Weight of Waiting

The hours pool like still water, gathering at my feet, rising with the slow patience of drowning— each second a drop that catches light, refracts, becomes something heavy.

I have learned the language of waiting: how silence builds its architecture, how breath becomes a metronome, how the space between one moment and the next can stretch wider than any ocean.

The light moves across the room like memory, tracing the shape of what I was, illuminating the hollow where hope lives. I have memorized every shadow, every corner where stillness pools deepest.

But somewhere beneath this silence, water finds its way through stone— patient, inevitable, carving meaning from the relentless pressure of time, until even waiting becomes beautiful.