I woke up and threw my phone against the wall. Punching a pillow, kicking a mattress in a tantrum tantamount to a twelve year old, furious with angst and anger, rage and confusion and worst of all, the possibility of hope. Looking at the phone, I read the message again. And again. The birth of hope, the promise of pain. And at 1.43, the only woman who could look me in the eye was free.
An honest person, someone I know I could trust. Someone who is kind, intelligent, sweet. Someone whom I could never call mine. A woman so cruel to be kind to me. And so, angry, I work myself up into a rage again. And then calm, I pull the strands of myself together, and watch helplessly as she sinks back from whence she came. Leaving me, still standing, still waiting.
It’s not her concern, none of her business really. It’s not completely her fault and definitely not her worry. While I wonder what horrific sin I have committed to be so accursed as to like someone so perfect. And I sit here, unable to come to grips with myself. Unsure and uncertain and worst of all unable. Refusing to open the box and find a dead cat, playing it safe, standing on the side, too scared to do anything but wait and wish for another life.
Be my rock, be my solace. Be my shouler to cry on. And I would wake up at 1.43 every morning, if only to throw my phone at the wall again and breathe in the crushing air of hope.