XI. The Waiting Hour

Part of a poetry novella

The clock no longer counts in hours
It ticks in glances, breaths, and aches.
I sit between the wilted flowers,
Unsure of what I meant to take.

Your name still hangs inside the air,
Too soft to hold, too sharp to speak,
It settles in the hollow chair
I never left, and won’t this week.

The hallway ends, then starts again.
The door stays closed, the light stays low.
I’m not quite sure how long it’s been
But everything still feels like no.