He’s sitting on mail, hoping it’s from her

He’s pretty sure this time: he’s hearing from her

He’s waiting several hours, not “to get back at her”

He’s sipping on the feeling, because he’s been missing her

 

He thought himself clever when he told her the extent of his feelings for her

He gave her access to his heart, his life, his fingerprints: anything to prove himself worthy of her

He gave her all the information she needed to make up her mind, even space, staying away from her

He gave her everything he had, including a bunch of letters, and in return received silence from her

 

 

She knows him inside and out, and he doesn’t even know the shape of her handwriting

She said one thing and another. She smiled and told him whatever. She left him hanging

She hinted here and there, or so he hopes. She didn’t say she did, but he’s certain she is waiting

 

Now that he got mail, after having been left wondering

Now that he got a word, or two, or three, finally coming

Now that he can hold on to something

 

He allows himself to wait, hoping

 

What if it’s all a sham?

What if this piece of mail is not another piece of her puzzle, but another red herring?

What if he is the swan she plummeted for his feathers?

 

He’ll cross that bridge when he’ll open that letter.

In the meantime,

He’ll keep hoping that he was right to keep holding on to dear hope amid disaster.

He’ll keep it up, buttercup, calculating the probability that he’s getting love and affection from her

Versus,

A sham, red herrings, or an arrow for his feathers.

***
Savato Kiriako et un joli canot