A dot outside the circle,
Isolated.
Feeling as if I'm
A puddle on the beach.

So close, almost the ocean.
So close to the sea it needs to join,
Otherwise it will evaporate
Unfinished.

I am the one who waits for the time to speak,
But opens his mouth once the moment passes. Too late.
The tide of conversation has gone out,
Leaving just a puddle on the beach.

When the rain comes to drench the soil,
It's the crop that grows offside,
Not a ****, but un-harvested nonetheless,
That's yearning for a transplant into the greener side.

And if this flower was to be picked,
Would the field realise?
Eventually.
You don't realise something's there until it's gone.