Waiting For Perfect.

She sat alone on her front porch, head tilted. Waiting. She always seemed to be waiting for something. The weather to change. To see an unexpected smile. For the night to come. For each day to end, so she could wake anew, and perhaps gain something from the waiting.

The waiting drained her, each breath leaving her body was like a tiny piece of happiness escaping her body. She was waiting for this part of her to change, waiting to grow up, for someone to find the seemingly missing pieces and rebuild her brilliant, perfect and new.

I see the girl small and alone, with her wide eyes and tired face. I wonder if she will ever realise the only thing she doesn't have to wait for, is this part of her to change.