Tennis

The ball taps the pavement
on your side of this line,
acting as the metronome
to which you make your
next steps, while I am left
with no pace or way to
mark the time. My side of
this court contains nothing
but the wildness of my own
heart, and the chaos of
emotions too big for my
little body to handle, and
I enviously watch you
calculate your every movement
in order, and with thought.
You pick up the phone,
knowing I'm waiting on the
line, but you put it down again,
knowing it's not time,
knowing you're not quite
there yet, and I anxiously
wait for the call that might
never come.

I am strong,
I am strong,
I am strong.