It’s 15:08 and I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to stand behind a counter that separates me from them,
Passing a false smile and I pretend to like it there.
Asking the same questions, customer after customer:
Would you like a bag? When it’s obvious.
Is that everything? When it is.
Would you like any cashback? When they don’t.

It’s not so much the job, or the people, it’s what they remind me of.
They remind me of what I have and what I don’t.

I have a job, but I don’t have a career; my career is lost somewhere.
I have more acquaintances than friends and that is lonely.

I have a friend, but I don’t have a best friend.
There is not a single soul that I confide in with every single last ounce of thought, no matter how much I want that.
No matter how generous a person is, I cannot tell them everything.

And I do. I want to tell them everything. I want them to know me and let me know that I am not all that strange; I am not wrong.

What does it feel like to feel right?
I’d like to know what that feels like most of all.

So as I place products on shelves for the consumers to consume, as I serve them with a smile and show them where the coffee is, as I watch the hours pass just wishing to be asleep again I always wonder:

What does it feel like to be loved?