The Waiting Game

The mailbox stands empty, a sentinel still,

the flag droops like hope in the muted light.

Days stretch like shadows, the silence a chill,

a reminder that some things are lost from our sight.

Chipped paint like memories, worn and unkind,

each scrape tells a story, a chapter unread.

I lean in to listen, but echoes unwind,

only silence returns to my heart full of dread.

What once held my letters now holds just the air,

whispers of wishes wrapped tight in the void.

I reach in and find it—just absence, a glare,

a promise I made that I’ll never avoid.