Anticipation. It used to be a treasured time in which I longed for clandestine meetings, for exotic getaways or just simply for what the future held. It was always something exciting, unknown and positive. It was a memorable part of the experience. But now, anticipation is crippling me. I can hardly speak. Itʼs hard to even simply breathe. My death. It is right before my eyes. I donʼt want to anticipate this. I cannot endure this wait. This haunting and unjust ending was never in my cards, not in the anticipated deck that was. Never did I envision, even in my worst nightmares, that I would be here awaiting my own execution for a crime I did not commit. As I share this reality, a shiver shoots down my spine. Did I really use the word reality? This canʼt be. I will be saved. I must believe that. I did nothing wrong. Iʼm the woman who shuddered at the thought of killing spiders. Donʼt they see me? The real me? Isnʼt someone going to run through the cold, iron gates and say this is all a horrible mistake? I need to sit down. I need to run. I need to get to the other side. Please. Donʼt torture me by leaving me here, alone in the quiet, with only this dreaded anticipation beside me. Save me … or just do it already. Do something, I beg you. If you don't, I may die right here in the suffocating space in between.

Rolling waves, sand at my feet

rocks in distance, appear

silky

Jagged edges concealed, fooling lovers

who jump in fearlessly toward the

Unknown

Pen in hand, she is ready for the fierce and bloody battle;

Restricted by nothing other than her own tangled mind.

Obeying her conscience and all she knew and needed to hear,

She thrusts burden and sorrow onto the cold and dusty floor. 

Ending the struggle, as the pen's ink weeps on the page. 

She nervously glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror one more time before taking a deep breath, getting out of the car and approaching his door. With her heart racing, she purposely slowed her gait as she twisted her hair around her fingers. When he opened the door and fervidly held her, she inhaled his intoxicating skin as the world she knew ceased to exist. 

Two bodies entangled 

morphing into one

So it appears 

in the sheets 

but the souls know their place

Apart

Where once we sat alone,

often in dark hours,

silently shouting our words,

An undisclosed outlet

that was shared with few

Until Prose was created

and writers were ignited

And carried on sturdy shoulders

of thirsty readers,

Now absorbing the words 

no longer just our own. 

The sustenance each provides

is the subtle beauty of Prose.