Because Occasionally I Write Poetry...

It's like people are waiting on me, 

but not on the me, that I am right now. 

Like one day the world will wake, and well I, 

I will be this new person, that isn't so broken? 

(Is broken the right word?) 

We're in a room now, and I'm standing in front of you.

The words "I'll just wait," hang delicately between us

But the version of me that you are surely waiting on, 

may not exist. This is it, and there is nothing more. 

I stare at the floor, or off into the distance,

I don't want to see the longing, or worse, the 

disappointment that grows with every moment.

Perhaps if we wait long enough, the person you've been waiting on

will stumble in, and I will realize it was never me in the first place.

Or maybe you will see that there is nothing more, waiting is useless,

and quietly you will tiptoe out of the room, and never look back. 

Time keeps passing, and I'm starting to wonder how much longer.

And then I wonder if it's possible for you to take me exactly as I am. 

It's a fleeting thought, but it seems to linger a second too long.

For just a single moment, I believe I am enough.