Wait

Okay I will

But who will you be

On that thirty-first day

The man that gave me his umbrella

Cut up my roast beef into endearing little pieces

The one who pours honey on freshly cut strawberries

Or will my voice soften

into a cotton ball

As my sentences fall flat

against your smooth, grey

matter-of-fact tone

My hands can only cup the prickly unknown for so long

before my mind unravels

a spool of hope

patching up my thinly veiled insecurity

and knitting together that which is fringed

by your suspicion

with the soothing cool of cotton

to warm the parts of me that have gone frozen

Until my angst is finally swallowed

by the downward click of a doorknob

the squeaky hinge 

marking the end of this waiting

Author's Note

Please leave any respectful critiques and ideas to help improve this poem! Thanks.