Roof of Waiting

Grey sky presses down hard on cracked concrete

like an unspoken debt.

Leaves whirl cold, dry corpses driven by wind

under flickering bulbs that cough out light.

I stand, clutching keys and too much air,

waiting for a call that might not come.

Rain starts, tiny fists against my coat,

tapping a rhythm like a question with no answer.

Inside, voices hum low, threaded with quiet fear,

outside, the silence hangs thicker than smoke.

The cracked floor is a mirror,

fractured and indifferent,

a waiting place

where goodbye hangs heavy like cold stone.

I count the dead leaves and the seconds

and the fading hope that I’ll see you walk out.

But the wind keeps shuffling

and the sky remains gray.