This is yet another letter to you that I can never possibly send. How many of these will I have to write? How many will it take until I can no longer hold your friendship in my heart?
For a long time, you have been standing with one foot in our friendship, and one foot out the door. Like so many of my lovers before you, you seem to know precisely the right moment to jump back in again, only to leave me high and dry. To withhold the love is to hold the power. Did I teach you that, so long ago?
In my line of work, we used to call this "re-setting the clock." To make me feel as if I haven't been waiting all that long for your call, after all. But I have. And you re-set the clock just to leave me waiting, still.
The hebrew word for "to wait" means to bind together our roots. Perhaps this is the reason that I cannot let you go. Perhaps my roots have been woven with yours for so long that they have become intertwined and overgrown. It seems that no matter how far I travel, I cannot tear away to put down new roots without you.
Can't you see that I don't want to?
Every time, it comes to this. Every time, it comes to self-flagellation for some mysterious offense that pushed you away. It must be my fault, somehow.
This is the place where I wait, this is the song of my waiting. Did I teach you this, so long ago?
There is no place I can run to where I don't carry you in my heart. And oh, I will be waiting on you my entire life. Our lives are forever tied together by a red string of fate, and I will always be here to greet you
when you come home.