On Waiting

She would never know how long she waited for him. The days never really turned to weeks and the summer was a part of her that didn't grow big enough to extend to any other organ inside her. Instead, when she saw them together those warm, sweaty days just altogether froze. But they were the kind of frozen that stays in the basement where only once in a long while she would accidentally stumble into one of them and not feel a sliver of sadness.  The kind that would see neither thaw nor exits. She never truly forgot both of them, but she never remembered them for longer than a few minutes either.

Yet, if you thumb through her journals dating back six years to the present, there was always a faint silhouette of what appeared to be hope in the background, so grotesquely blurred by a conflagration of other separate emotions that it simply was just not there most of the time. But she had been waiting all those years.