I think I've spent my life waiting for her.
With bated breath,
I've stood on tiptoe
scanning the passing crowd.
With clenched fist,
I've held back tears
insisting that she was just around the bend.
With wavering voice,
I've made desperate claims
assuring myself and others that we would meet soon.
Yet, when
for the first time, I recognize her countenance.
She isn't what I'd pictured or even hoped for,
but the familiarity is comforting nonetheless.
She - her - the awaited identity - is not a foreign dream.
No.
She is the face staring back in the mirror.
The reflection I've known for years.
But for the first time, upon seeing her, I stop waiting.