In the Shadows. Waiting. For Him. Again.
It seems it is all she has been doing lately.
Nerve-wracking hours spent glued to a window,
hoping against hope, set up for disappointment.

Wishing. In the Shadows. Praying. Again.
Urging the next headlights that brighten
the dark corners of the room, but never
the darkness in her heart, to be his.

Hurting. Crying. In the Shadows. Again.
Humiliated by the memories of the smell of
too sweet perfume on his skin, and the trail
on his back where nails, not hers, drew blood.

In the Shadows. Scorned. Angry. Again.
Facing the self-loathing caused by
her indecisiveness, when all it takes is
to pack his suitcase and leave it at the front door.

 

© november child
in response to Michelle Toussaint Photo Fiction #77
photo credit: Josefine Jonsson
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