There's a somebody for everybody,
but I think my somebody
fell into a well and lives there
like folklore.
I think my somebody is somewhere
far away, not missing me
like I am missing them.
I think my somebody
might already be married
with two kids and a mortgage,
or entrapped in the idea of someone else.
I think my somebody lives somewhere
with dirt floors and no telephone,
and can't write to me
or even keep warm.
I think my somebody is lonely like me,
sitting and thinking
and shrinking away from a world half-empty,
while I'm here
and you're there.