Waiting

They well up inside me
Beat heavy, and hard
My veins pulse with the notes
The notes that I long to recreate

The words unwritten
A sort of melody I haven't yet caught wind of
But it's there
The faintest hint
The scratch
The warm hand on the small of my back
A look that speaks volumes

My heart palpitates to the beat of a car door slamming outside
I wait
And wait
My thumbs recount the fervent drumming of the braided man
His beat goes on
And on

The woman who has lost her voice
She sings for us
Inside her recesses

We long and grasp
To find voice for the ringing inside
To paint a way forward
Even when we've stopped leaning into the future

The song remains unfinished
Lacking for accompaniment, it feels raw
Waiting
Waiting
The beat goes on

Stories can enable us to look inwardly and then outwardly as we seek to unmask our identities in search of our true selves. Today, perhaps more than ever, I need these stories to remind me, to show me, to guide me. I need the hope that I can no longer find in myself but which can only be given and received. To see the world as a child. To trust and to love deeply without fear of rebuff. To step beyond the precipice of my own understanding and fall into the arms of another's leading. I press my outstretched flesh into the promises, and wait.