I sit in monstrous silence,
The kind that swallows you whole and twists your insides like a pretzel.
The fragility of life makes the air look like glass,
Destined to be shattered at any moment.
In the waiting, there is no voice of reason.
In the waiting, there are no rose-colored glasses, only foggy lenses.
In the waiting, there are feelings that have faces.
In the waiting, hope whispers its still, soft song.