It must be nice,
Having someone to look forward to.
A friend to call your own.
Daydreams of perfect afternoons.
You and your friend in a blanket cocoon.

I have I no such visions,
For I have no one to call my own,
Only hoping to catch table scraps.
My moods are seasons at high speeds,
For each change I undertake I require new needs.

I can't even recall such a time,
When I looked forward to someone who is mine.
But still I can't help but to feel fine.
Guess I don't mind the melancholy,
Suits me I find.