I bask in the glow of your promises,
but I know they are just words:
light like feathers,
less substance than air,
and less useful.
Believing would make me look the fool,
unless this time they’re true.
Is it too little, too late?
Raise your hand if you know the answer.
No matter what I choose, I’ll come to grief,
and so I wait, in liminal space,
in a bubble,
as if under water.
Holding my breath.
This is a Three Word Wednesday post.