She stares at the wall, counting the grooves,
Fingers drumming softly against her thigh.
The kettle whistles, then quiets again—
Another minute, another breath held high.
Waiting is the ache between footsteps,
The hush before a message that never comes.
It’s scrolling through photos just to feel,
Fighting the urge to numb what numbs.
She checks the time, again, again,
Re-reading old words like a sacred script.
The silence wraps her, not as peace,
But as a blanket woven with what-ifs.
The room holds stories she dares not speak,
Memories tucked behind half-closed doors.
She waits not just for something to happen,
But for meaning to form from before.
Waiting teaches in whispers, not roars
That not all stillness is void or vain.
That growth often hides in uneventful days,
Where longing and learning intertwine with pain.
She is not idle, though unmoving she seems.
She is gathering strength in her very still state.
Like a seed tucked deep in the stubborn earth,
Becoming, slowly, what only time can create.
There’s beauty in not knowing just yet,
In sitting through silence without a map.
Because even in pause, life is still speaking—
And her heart learns to listen… and clap.
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 