The Wait.

There's no sorrowful night like the one spent on your knees, 

as the one in which you're forgetting your name and

stitching a new one. as the one in which you cry your

saint's names over and over, even if you suspect they forgot you 

long ago. gentle hands and whispers caress your face by day, and you

weep by night, because your lungs are an ocean, hope turns into

blade. 

there's no place that comforts a face without a name, 

and in this moment of waiting, these seconds of hesitation, 

you'd breathe easier if no one saw you, no one met you, 

what is transformation inside a home? what is, but a 

circus show? 

As you breathe in and out, you realize you're scared. 

You're just scared. 

For how long? It settles beneath your eyelids every night, 

scared and sorrowful you sit. 

alone and loved you wait. 

And the wait stretches until morning.