There was a time when I pined and pined and pined for a lover who had rejected me. I knew he was ‘going through a thing’ and that I could do nothing to make the thing resolve itself quickly, but I ached for him like I’d never ached for anything or anyone before. This poem was my comfort during that time.
I spoke about hope and what it means in my last Extra Large Love Letter – what pessimism and optimism mean, and how to carry yourself when the world seems intent on killing hope.
I’m publishing this in the critical hours when there is still hope to save some of the people trapped in collapsed buildings in Turkey after an enormous earthquake.
Pining for a lover and waiting to be saved from crushing rubble are not nearly the same thing.
Hope, though, is hope. And sometimes it is passive waiting and sometimes it is active, hard-working, waiting.
Wait without hope