Lungs not full -- yet. And heart beating fast.
Skin on my cheekbones tingle, opening its pores with emerging antennae picking up
Frequencies of hope.
Lips parched, thirsty for memories, wanting more than offered.
Do I accept the whatinsinfrontofme?
Or wait expectantly, hoping for whatifs and ifonlys?
Do I name this "Hopefulness"?
Or "Waiting for the Neverwillbe?"
And who's to say that those who wait are ones that are to be pitied, sitting dry like
Corn husks after the harvest?
A closed door, painted red, with pots of white geraniums clustering the entryway.
It's soundly closed, not a crack of light or air may pass through, but ---
It has a doorknob.
And is not locked.
In fact ... there is no locking mechanism at all.
And that, my friend, is hope.