The intimate restaurant ambience warms me from the cold,
a waiter smiles and beckons,
“It’s your turn to be seated,” I’m told.
With a knowing look, he asks – “so, will it be just you?”
“I’m waiting,” is my reply,
as he directs me to a table set for two.
The surroundings are different; the menu, though seems worn,
curious, I ask the waiter,
“It’s brand-new,” says he, with a touch of scorn.
So, longingly I stare – across at the unoccupied space,
an empty, wooden chair,
waiting for a human face.
While the pairs around me chatter, conversing to and fro,
with myself I sit and wait,
for whom, I do not know.
The sun begins to set as the day gives way to night,
tables being cleared
people finishing their last bite.
Where have you gone, my once attentive waiter,
you’d visit all the time,
now there are new customers to cater.
Across from me, untouched – silverware and plate,
and I remain where I began,
left to hope and wait.
They say it’s the waiting – that’s the hardest part,
but for me the not knowing
is what really breaks my heart.
I take my leave and wonder; perhaps it’s simply fate,
that my existence in this world
will always be to wait?
Dedicated to all those still waiting, wherever you are. The parts of yourself, the emotions and feelings you keep so well hidden from the public eye – for what it’s worth, please know you’re never far from our minds and hearts...
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