The unrequited love poem
This write up is inspired by “365 Creative Writing Prompts”
Day 207/366
How do you feel when you love someone who does not love you back?
The wind whistles its way in through the sill,
The sound of the television as loud as the thunder outside.
The next-door neighbor making a loud noise, their headboard hitting the thin cardboard wall.
The roasted chicken sits cold on the dining table, set for six.
Maybe she’s expecting call
But they might just showed up and gave her long hugs and tight.
She peeks through the curtain, hoping to see a white Toyota Corolla ‘86 parked in front of her house. “Maybe any second now”, she told herself.
For a moment, she curls her lips, then bites her bottom lip, wiping off her red cherry lipstick.
She stares at the telephone hung on the wall, as if expecting a call any second.
“Knock-knock!” Voices of young children outside jump her a little.
She gently fixes her curtain bangs covering her watery eyes, quickly puts on a smile, and wipes the tears away.
“Hello, you! How adorable you are,” she says with her best smile as she opens her front door.
“Trick or treat, Ms. Waldorf!” say the children in sync.
She takes a few bunches of chocolates and sweets and drops them into the buckets the children brought.
There are three of them in Halloween’s costume: one looking adorable in a blue shirt and rabbit’s ear looking like a Peter Rabbit, another older boy in a Frankenstein costume with a pale-painted face, and another in a Cindy Crawford makeup and hair.
The children thank her in sync once again and leave to join the others on the street.
She stands on her porch for a while, staring at the cars passing by.
As if the air gives her a chill, she holds her cardigan, pulls it closer to her chest, and whispers to herself, “It’s alright, maybe it’s time for bed.”
She goes back to her dining table, wraps the food, and puts it in the fridge.
She drinks the leftover wine in her glass as she cleans the dining area and kitchen.
She goes up to her bed, cleans herself, changes into her nightgown, and pulls her blanket up to cover her whole body to her head.
Before she switches off the night lamp, she glances at her nightstand and blows a kiss to a picture of her with three other girls and older folks, likely her parents.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mom, Maddy, Tammy, Sarrah, Dad!” she whispers, turning to her side of the bed.
That has been her tradition every year, crying herself to sleep.
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