"She stands some nights upon the bridge—"
"Not stands—she lingers, watching still."
"They say she hums—"
"She doesn’t hum—she curses."
The wind shifts—barely, lightly, unnoticed, as if eavesdropping.
"She waits for him—"
"She waits for none."
"She never moves—"
"And yet her shadow shifts each dawn."
It bends along the tethered line, a whisper slithering through the air.
It lingers, pressing past the stone, a hush that settles, soft yet bare.
"She waits for him—"
"She waits for none—no lover lost."
"She does not move—"
"She walks the bridge! At dusk, she’s crossed!"
The wind shifts—only slightly, leaning against the hollow arch, curling like an unanswered breath.
"She never speaks—"
"No! She calls—"
"A name—his name, they swear it’s true!"
"Then tell me—what name does she cry?"
"A sailor—"
"No, a poet—"
"No, a fool who left her there to die!"
"That’s a lie—she didn’t wait."
"She killed him!"
"No—she wept!"
"She cursed his name—"
"She called him back—"
"She sent him to the depths!"
"But what was it? The name she hisses?"
"No one knows—no one stays long."
"Not to hear—"
"Not to listen—"
"Not to meet the same unlucky fate."
The wind bends against the iron frame, meandering through the fractured stone.
It lingers, silently clinging to fractured facades, unseen upon the tethered known.
"Then why does ocean keep his name?"
"What name?"
"The one she cries."
"No one hears it—"
"That’s a lie."
"If she calls, the tide returns—"
"She does not call—"
"Then what is left?"
"No one asks."
"But someone heard it once—"
"A whisper—"
"A breath—"
"No! A cry—"
"And then the storm arrived."
"That’s just the wind—"
"Then why did the waves pull stronger?"
"No one knows—"
"No one stays—"
"No one wants to suffer the same fate."
The wind shifts—steady, bending against the breath of night.
"She waits upon the bridge at dawn—"
"She waits for none—she does not breathe!"
"She lingers still—"
"She does not linger—she does not leave!"
"She never moves—"
"She walks at dusk!"
"She watches close—"
"No! She’s a vampire that feeds!"
"She drowned—"
"She burned—"
"She swayed—"
"She fell—"
"She never died at all!"
It pulls along the weathered stone, a breath that lingers, drawn but slight.
It threads through the iron frame, a breath drawn deep against the night.
"You’re all wrong!"
"I know the truth!"
The wind stills.
"She haunts the bridge—"
"She waits for none—"
"She waits to drown them all!"
"She drowned her love—a poet!"
"He wrote for the moon!"
"He wrote for her—"
"He did not—he saw only the moon!"
"And she was jealous—"
"And she dragged him down!"
"She drowned him, yes!"
"And now she waits—"
"She sees them cross—"
"She sees them happy—"
"And she takes them!"
"She pulls them down!"
"She waits at night!"
"She watches close!"
"And if you cross the bridge—"
"She will drag you into the water!"
"She will drown you too!"
It pulls along the fractured beams, its tether tight, its sorrow bound.
It curls beneath the shuttered doors, a breath now sharp, interrupting the hush profound.
It grips—tenses—knots against the arch, coiled within the hollow halls.
It tightens, pressing through the streets, coils against the stone walls.
Then—
It rises. It bends. It twists. It breaks.
It wails.
"It’s true!"
"It must be!"
"She’s angry!"
"The storm warns us!"
"The wind confirms it!"
The wind lashes out—hard, sharp, reckless— slamming against doors, rattling shutters, clawing at rooftops, howling through the streets.
They scream. They scatter. They run.
It pulls along the broken eaves, a breath too strong, too deep, too wide.
It twists, it surges, then it flees— a hush before the rising tide.
Doors slam. Voices vanish. The streets fall silent.
The wind does not linger any longer.
It turns—sharp, sudden, surging somewhere in the distance.
A voice rises. Yet, a name does not follow. A truth is spoken. And yet, none were ever there at all.
The wind strains. The voices press. The fear remains. But what was called? And what was carried away?
Thus vanishes the fifth echo in 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/