WHILE WE WAIT

What the Rain Didn’t Wash Away

It rained for days.

not a storm,

just steady enough

to fill the cracks in the driveway

and make the air smell

like endings.

The ink on your note

bled through the paper,

letters slipping into one another

until you're sorry.’

wasn’t even legible anymore.

I thought the sky might help,

that it would take the sharpness

of that night

and smooth it into something

I could walk barefoot across.

But the rain stopped,

and the mark your hand left

on the windowsill–

a faint half-circle of dust–

stayed there.

The house feels clean,

but the air still holds

the word you didn’t say.

While We Wait

Tomorrow, when I wake,

or think I do,

I’ll wonder what I did today.

Just waited, I guess;

for something,

or someone,

that never came.

The sun went up,

the sun went down,

and we stayed here,

talking about nothing,

laughing at small things

just to fill the quiet.

Sometimes I think waiting

is what life really is:

hoping for a change,

a sign,

a reason.

Maybe what matters

isn’t what we wait for,

but that we keep waiting–

together.

Chipped Cup

The rim is uneven,

a bite taken out of porcelain.

I drink carefully,

lips finding a safe place.

It feels like a shortcut,

pretending nothing’s broken

because I can still use it.

But it’s also shorthand:

the chip tells me that

the cup has been dropped,

and someone still decided

it was worth keeping anyway.

White glaze, rough edge,

a little scar I touch every morning,

as if to remind myself:

fragile things don’t stop holding.

Olivia Koo is a high school student and emerging poet. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading, movies and music. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio.