w.a.i.t.i.n.g.
Spoken of the tracks of the railway, the sounding of the departure, the footstep of the people, the connection they made.
Wait - was what I did, not knowing when is my ride coming, which one to hop onto, who am I riding with, how long does it take, where is my destination.
The paper in my hand, sweat seeping through the pages, blurring the words that were printed, unable to comprehend anymore, to the trash, to be recycled.
Spoken of the terminal of the airport, the sight of the plane arriving, and then of the passengers, the direction they came.
Wait - was what I did again, not knowing when is the flight, which terminal it disembarks, who is on my list, how list has it been since the last we met, where is our destination.
The cup in my hand, coffee chilling away, losing its warmth and aroma, starting to weigh more than its mass, no longer pleasant, to the nearby bin, or to be reheated.
Is there ever an end point, or is it a point of ending?
