Waiting to Hold you Extrait
An agarwood-bursting extrait dedicated to the phenomenal screenplay "Waiting to Hold You" by Cormac Jones.
It opens with a mistake.
Two marigolds. One was meant to be memory, the other regret. Instead, they bloom at once—sunlit, bitter. A rose half-open in October. Green absinthe stirred with rainwater and loss. Saffron threads tangled like cassette tape—too sacred to untangle, too warped to play again. Smoke rises, but it’s the kind that stains the walls.
A shift.
Now it’s her. Or the idea of her. Not the one who said goodbye—but the version who never said anything at all. Honey slips through the cracks of a fading summer. Tobacco on flannel. Cambodian oud drawn out like the end of a sentence you never quite finish. Coffee boiled too long in a garage. Jasmine worn behind the ear, only once. Damask rose on an old shirt. Osmanthus like lipstick on a cigarette butt. You’re still too young for this part, but it’s already happening.
Then the second movement.
The boy’s gone. The monastery is real. Oud again—deeper, more like earth than smoke. Castoreum moves in like the cold. Myrrh, cypriol, and a trace of cade oil—like burnt pages from a journal buried in snow. Hay, immortelle, sandalwood. The kind of warmth that doesn’t just comfort. The kind that keeps you awake.
As the scent lingers on, you sense an echo of two stories told too far apart to meet. But they both end in the same place.
Please do yourself the favor, and visit the below link to read the screenplay FOR FREE:
https://cormacjones.substack.com/p/waiting-to-hold-you-a-screenplay?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email&utm_content=share
An agarwood-bursting extrait dedicated to the phenomenal screenplay "Waiting to Hold You" by Cormac Jones.
It opens with a mistake.
Two marigolds. One was meant to be memory, the other regret. Instead, they bloom at once—sunlit, bitter. A rose half-open in October. Green absinthe stirred with rainwater and loss. Saffron threads tangled like cassette tape—too sacred to untangle, too warped to play again. Smoke rises, but it’s the kind that stains the walls.
A shift.
Now it’s her. Or the idea of her. Not the one who said goodbye—but the version who never said anything at all. Honey slips through the cracks of a fading summer. Tobacco on flannel. Cambodian oud drawn out like the end of a sentence you never quite finish. Coffee boiled too long in a garage. Jasmine worn behind the ear, only once. Damask rose on an old shirt. Osmanthus like lipstick on a cigarette butt. You’re still too young for this part, but it’s already happening.
Then the second movement.
The boy’s gone. The monastery is real. Oud again—deeper, more like earth than smoke. Castoreum moves in like the cold. Myrrh, cypriol, and a trace of cade oil—like burnt pages from a journal buried in snow. Hay, immortelle, sandalwood. The kind of warmth that doesn’t just comfort. The kind that keeps you awake.
As the scent lingers on, you sense an echo of two stories told too far apart to meet. But they both end in the same place.
Please do yourself the favor, and visit the below link to read the screenplay FOR FREE:
https://cormacjones.substack.com/p/waiting-to-hold-you-a-screenplay?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email&utm_content=share