I sit for hours.
My coffee cools into silence.
Eyes heavy.
Stomach knots.

I ache for comfort—
Can you give it?
You were the best thing to happen to me.
So why must I ruin it?

Speak to me in riddles.
Keep me guessing.
Make me wait.
Make me beg.
I am truly yours—
And you don’t even know.

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
I whispered Brontë like a secret.
Maybe hoping you'd hear it
In the space between my words.

You are too good
Too pure
I get lost in the worry of not being good for you
Don't let me pollute you.

You smile at me
Like the sun caught in a window.
I try not to stare too long.
I try not to hope too hard.
The fear of getting lost hangs in the air.

Every look you give me
Feels like a maybe.
Every silence
Feels like a no.

I love the waiting—
The little moments,
The crumbs of you
That I gather like gold.

But it hurts.
Not knowing.
Balancing between “maybe he does”
And “maybe he never will.”

Still, I stay.
Eyes heavy.
Coffee cold.
Heart full,
And aching.