Shifting from foot to foot, a dull aching in your heels.
You've been standing for minutes, hours, days... Though you really haven't been.
You've just arrived. Yet you're so impatient.
Patience is the key they always say.
But this is too good to be patient for.
You've been waiting for years to meet him.
The one you spend all night talking to,
The one you told all your secrets to,
The one who understands you more than you understand yourself.
And yet you're nervous.
What if you don't meet the bar?
What if you're not what he's been looking for?
What if this is the end?
Yet it's not.
Because you know that those thoughts are just small doubts.
Small doubts that have no meaning, because you've known this man for years.
You'd know through the way he talked, typed, worded his sentences if he was no longer interested.
Now your feet rely ache because you have been standing there for an hour.
The plane was delayed but you can see the gate from where you stand.
There's no sign in your hands to welcome him. He knows every detail of you.
He could pick you out of a crowd faster than you could find Waldo.
You think you see him but a crowd of scurrying people flit to and fro.
Annoyance.
And yet a smile springs across your face as you're embraced from behind.
He was always a sneaky one. You know by the feel that this is the one you've been waiting for.
Turning you greet him with all the assurance and love you can give him.
Because you've waited long enough.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Stolen Lines
For several weeks now, I have been painting pictures of watermelons. Over and over again. Green to black to white to pink to freckles of tiny black dots across the soft pink surface.
It's looks nothing like a watermelon now. Just a circus of colorful splotches, smeared across the canvas. Maybe I should start over? Like I've done so many times before. Or Maybe I'll keep this one. I do enjoy the stretch lines of the melon. Though those could be mistaken for ripples in a pond.
Maybe I should make it a pond? Who would know the difference but I?
No. I can't be half hearted through this all.
A Watermelon. How hard can it be you ask? Well I have been at it for weeks now. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's the way I'm approuching it that's wrong...
Should I lay on my side and paint it upside down?
I could throw paint on it. But I don't feel like cleaning that up...
"John come look at this. I think I'm done," My holler sang through out the old home, just as his heavy foot steps bellowed back at me. Waltzing in from some distant part of the house, my gangly man scratched his bushy chin and stared at the splotches on the canvas.
"It's a nice watermelon. I like how you drew it split open and spilling out. Lovely work darling," Tilting my head at my husband and looking at him as if he had lost his mind. It looked like crap. Maybe he was lying to me.
"Poppycock. Trying yanking my other leg," I scoffed. He chuckled lightly and patted my head before planting a soft kiss on my forehead.
"You, my dear, are deranged," That I might be. But this watermelon is the bane of my existance.
"I'm throwing it out," I started.
"Why? I was going to hang it above the fireplace..." He groaned.
"Why bother? It's rubbish!" At this point I threw my hands in the air. Having given up.
"Why not? I find it lovely," Stubborn man. I'll let him do as he pleases. But I'm throwing it in the river as soon as he's not looking.
It's looks nothing like a watermelon now. Just a circus of colorful splotches, smeared across the canvas. Maybe I should start over? Like I've done so many times before. Or Maybe I'll keep this one. I do enjoy the stretch lines of the melon. Though those could be mistaken for ripples in a pond.
Maybe I should make it a pond? Who would know the difference but I?
No. I can't be half hearted through this all.
A Watermelon. How hard can it be you ask? Well I have been at it for weeks now. Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's the way I'm approuching it that's wrong...
Should I lay on my side and paint it upside down?
I could throw paint on it. But I don't feel like cleaning that up...
"John come look at this. I think I'm done," My holler sang through out the old home, just as his heavy foot steps bellowed back at me. Waltzing in from some distant part of the house, my gangly man scratched his bushy chin and stared at the splotches on the canvas.
"It's a nice watermelon. I like how you drew it split open and spilling out. Lovely work darling," Tilting my head at my husband and looking at him as if he had lost his mind. It looked like crap. Maybe he was lying to me.
"Poppycock. Trying yanking my other leg," I scoffed. He chuckled lightly and patted my head before planting a soft kiss on my forehead.
"You, my dear, are deranged," That I might be. But this watermelon is the bane of my existance.
"I'm throwing it out," I started.
"Why? I was going to hang it above the fireplace..." He groaned.
"Why bother? It's rubbish!" At this point I threw my hands in the air. Having given up.
"Why not? I find it lovely," Stubborn man. I'll let him do as he pleases. But I'm throwing it in the river as soon as he's not looking.
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