The Waiting Poem by Ella Bradshaw

I find no pleasure in the seeking
Nor the incessant converse.
The shameful ritual, I look upon
With pitying contempt.

To search, to search, to
Never find.
The illusion is a possibility, though
Fades with time.

The touch, the touch, the
Waiting.
The waiting leaves me dry.
Remembering how easy goes the living
When you have said goodbye.

Doomed to feel, but to never know.
The wind rattles at my heart.
The chill I knew long before
Creeps in the longer we're apart.