Time behaves strangely when your heart is on pause. This poem is for the days that stretch, the seasons that fold into one another, and the windows we stare out of while we wait for a different kind of weather.

Poem against a background of a moody, vintage oil painting of a woman sitting by a window and writing in her journal by candlelight.
What are you waiting for that cannot be rushed?
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Published by Evon O.

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