book of words

Patience..

He sits and he waits. 

 waits for a minute, than another minute, and soon another. Suddenly it's an hour. Then multiple hours, and before he can realize it he's going to bed. 

He thinks about all the crazy stories he'll share to them. He thinks of the things he'll show and the information he learned.

Upon returning from school, no one is there. 

 And he waits again. 

 Time passes by, maybe she's on a trip. 

It's at most been a day. It has to have been. She's coming back soon, and he can't wait to share what's been going on.

He looks in her room. It's dark and empty and a lingering feeling of uncomfortableness fills the room, polluting the air and infecting the items that were once interacted with. It feels empty.

 She's gonna come back soon. She's always been back. She's always home, and they laugh and play and talk and chill together. 

And he can't wait for her to return. She always comes back.

He soon has to accept that she's not coming back any time soon. He stands at her doorway and his heart feels like it's dropped all the way to his stomach. His heart has chains on it, it's being held down by forces he doesn't know. And he accepts it as he coughs up the heart that was once full of laughter, leaving a hollow shell, and a ribcage with nothing to protect. 

 He shouldn't cry. He knew this was going to happen. They've been planning it for months in advance. Why does it hurt now? His inner child wants to scream and kick and curse and wail, but all he does is close the door as his throat gets clogged with the millions of sobs that he swallowed whole with him, and swallowed they will stay.