The Man I Keep Waiting For

There is a peculiar sorrow
reserved for those
who are not waiting
for love to knock,
or fortune to remember their name,

but for themselves.

The self that wakes before the sun
without bargaining.
The self whose hands
remember how to build
instead of only remembering
what was lost.

I have mistaken longing
for movement.

Believing that because my heart
could imagine kingdoms,
my feet had already crossed them.

Yet dreams,
for all their holy language,
can become velvet chains.
They wrap around the soul so gently
you mistake captivity
for comfort.

I mourn futures
that have never buried themselves.

I grieve the man
I have not yet become,
as though absence itself
were a gravestone.

How strange it is
to miss someone
who still shares your face.

So I linger
between intention and incarnation,
where every tomorrow
arrives carrying yesterday
like an old inheritance
no one has the courage to refuse.

The longing is not my enemy.

It is beautiful.

It reminds me
that somewhere beyond this weary flesh
my spirit has already seen
what it was fashioned to become.

But longing is a poor architect.

It can draw cathedrals
that never know the weight of stone.

It can sing of oceans
while dying beside a well.

There comes an hour
when the soul must release
its own reflection.

When you stop reaching
for the person you hope to become
and instead become
the person who reaches.

Detach
not from your dream,
but from the version of yourself
that requires certainty
before taking a single step.

Growth has never asked permission
from comfort.

The oak did not remain an acorn
because the darkness underground
felt familiar.

The river never apologized
for leaving the mountain
that gave it birth.

Perhaps I have not been waiting
for destiny.

Perhaps destiny
has been waiting
for me
to stop worshipping
the ache of becoming.

One day
I will look back
at this stillness
and discover
it was never a prison.

Only the final room
where the old self
hesitated at the doorway,

while the new one,
patient as dawn,

learned
that souls are not transformed
by what they desire—

but by what they finally
find the courage
to leave behind.