While I'm Waiting

You're in a coma; I know this is a little strange to hear. Okay, maybe not so strange, since you were totally sober when you got hit on the corner of Holly and Fourth by that stupid silver–sleek Volkswagen that spits air pollution every which way we go, so you'd remember all the crap that happened days ago.

I'm here talking to you as your breath comes in short and long, short and long.

Chest rises, eyes shut tight. Don't know how I got through the day without seeing those beautiful lashes surrounding your shy–pinched eyes. Soft butter tufts of hair peeking out from under your beanie, still attached to your head even after all these years. Bushy brows relaxed from its usual tiny crinkle–making. Tiny pink pillows hide your white crooked teeth and remind me that I never want to see your teeth go straight.

This is my entire fault.

Someday, when you wake up and I hug you till you almost die again,

I'll tell you I'm so sorry,

Sorry that I'm so assuming, like that time when I thought you only wanted to be lab partners with me in fourth grade because I had the smarticles to make a baking soda volcano,

Sorry that I'm as desperate as Miley Cyrus, from good girl to bad bitch,

Sorry that I'm clingy like batter on malfunctioning parchment paper, as I was when I went through a peer phase in seventh grade,

Sorry that I'm just me...

But while I'm waiting,

I'll stay confined in this lonely excuse for a patient's room – nothing to remind you of how you first came to be, of how you first came to my side, of how your love somehow crept into my heart like those ninja stealth actors who always get the best pay.

I'll stay by the door that's sealed for patient safety purposes, but is really sealed so that Privacy and Publicity will act as Romeo and Juliet for a time until the day comes when you and your never–fading glory rise to leave me behind with Privacy, forever and peacefully kept from its nemesis Company.

I'll stay with the windows because they bring in not just the sun, moon, stars and lights, but the pollen too, which would always wake you up with a catastrophic sneeze, which I want you to do because then I would watch you scrunch up your forehead into a million crinkles before you made the smallest–then–loudest noise the world would ever know and I'd see you open your shy–pinched eyes and

Smile

At

Me.

While I'm waiting

For that day when you wake up and call out my dear name and ask all the smart–but–stupid nurses–who–don't–know–what–the–heck–you're–talking–about where I am,

For that day when I finally come back from that bathroom that was stuffed with hot air molecules and make–up–ridden girls only to see you sitting up and about to break down in waterfalls,

For that day when you cry "I'm sorry" and I rush to you to give you a hug because kissing someone in a hospital bed would not go well with the hospital staff or your parents and because it would kill you,

For that day when my tear glands act up for no apparent reason because you can finally walk,

For that day when we patch things up and we learn to trust each other again,

For that day when you ask me "Will you marry me?" because I am such an assuming girl dog,

For that day when I answer you with a single "Yes" and everything flash–forwards in our brains to our wedding, honeymoon, children, and eternities,

I will

Sing that song we learned when we were in third grade,

Cover your bland hospital walls with cookie–cutters we made together as a project in sixth grade,

Forgive the one–who–shall–be–nameless for stealing your heart for an hour by giving her a picture of us making out on Huntington Beach,

Find and beg the DJ, who played at our ninth grade freshman dance, to burn me a CD of "See You Again" by Wiz Khalifa and Charlie Puth,

Smash the CD I asked for in front of your hospital room 787 because screw farewells and sayonara,

Open that sealed door,

Walk into the place I feared the most,

Sit down on your bed no matter how tabooed it is,

And hold your hand, the hand that has the silver friendship bracelet I gave you in our senior high school year draped girlishly on your wrist and held my own bronze–imbedded one when I was too scared to be my own voice and shushed me before you held me so close I had to kiss you first,

With both my hands,

The ones I just used yesterday to slap the one–who–shall–be–nameless for stealing your heart for an hour,

The ones that dropped my graduation cap days ago when I saw a heap of garments on the floor of your apartment,

The ones that shook days ago as I smiled at your bare chest and waved,

The ones that pumped my guns days ago as I walked–and–then–ran away from your apartment that was just across from my own,

The ones that punched and slapped you days ago when you caught up to me and tried to calm me and apologize for the things that had just gone down,

The ones that protectively flew under me as you pushed me to safety from the speeding silver,

The ones that went up to my mouth days ago after a skid–screech–BOOM echoed,

The ones that held you in my arms days ago as I screamed for help,

The ones that clasped together in prayer for you to wake up,

The ones that hold you now.

I will

Bring your hand to my lips, the way I did the day you were sick with heartache in fifth grade,

Smooth out the wrinkles, the way you smoothed my frown lines while I cried on eighth grade graduation night,

And kiss it again, like I always do whenever you hold my own icy hands in your warm–welcome ones,

All the while saying

"I'm sorry".

While I'm waiting,

I'll always love

You.