I long to be known.
To be seen.
To be heard.

I long to be held,
In a comforting embrace,
And told that everything will be okay

I always thought someone would find me.
That it would be a perfect teenage romance,
Like you see in stupid fantastical films.

So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.

But no one came.

I was a naive fool.

Maybe it's just not meant to be.

The cup of tea
sat cold on the table,
I waited for her,
but the chair remained empty.

February bites down—
wind with a switchblade edge,
sky like the underbelly of something dead,
clawing at a season that turns its back,
half-winter, half-wishbone,
stuck in the throat of the year.

Sidewalks crack like dry lips.
Trees wear loneliness like a borrowed skin—
bare, brittle, bracing for something
that never arrives.

The sky stays gray,
an unanswered text.
Days sink like forgotten receipts in my tote,
asking things I can’t answer,
whispering, Didn’t you think you’d feel different by now?
Didn’t I?

The cold is a debt I keep paying in shivers,
in chapped hands, in mornings that taste like spoiled perfume
and dreams of other cities, where I wake up panting,
where I breathe out his name like an epiphany,
and let my eyes sigh closed like a prayer.

I walk through the days like a half-lit hallway,
never sure what I’m looking for,
never sure I’ll find it.

I forget what my hands were made for.
I press my palm against the frost-bitten glass,
just to prove I’m still warm-blooded.

February unspools, soft and slow,
a ribbon of time that never quite ties into a bow,
a breath held too long in a house too small.

And I—
I stand at the edge of the month like a skipped stone,
almost ready to sink, almost ready to fly,
caught in the soft ache of almost,
in the half-light of wanting.

March will come like an answer
to a question I don’t remember,
but tonight, February lingers—
a ghost-limbed thing,
a name I still chase in the dark,
leaving me unfinished,
half-written,
half-here.

Patiently                                                        ­                                        Too
And                  ­                                                                 ­                   Long
Fortune                                  ­                                                         Fortune
Will                                                     ­                                                   May
Find      ­                                                                 ­                                Pass
You                                                         ­                                              Right
Free                                                       ­                                                    By
You                                                           ­                                              You
From                                                         ­                                             And
Poverty's       ­                                                                 ­                        You
Reeking                              ­                                                                 ­  Will
Chains                                                      ­                                              Fail
Again         ­                                                                 ­                             To
Alas                                                          ­                                          Notice      
If                                                              ­                                            When
You             ­                                                                 ­                                It
Wish                          ­                                                                 ­           Slips      
And                                       ­                                                              Away

i sit there in my lifeless, cold, grey room,
the rain taps on my window religiously.
the mist of the newly brewed tea rises,
as the dull brown liquid stains the white porcelain cup.

i sit there thinking, dreaming.
thinking, dreaming of what could be.
thinking, dreaming of what will be.
i think and dream of suffering and of relief.
i think and dream of failures and of success.
i think and dream of monstrosity and of perfection.
i sit there thinking and dreaming.

the grey intensifies, overwhelms, and dominates,
every speck of grey aims to blind and to bind me.
the objects of my thoughts and dreams become reality.
monsters and angels seep out of the corner walls.

nothing is all i can do.
but sit.
thinking.
dreaming.
waiting to be devoured.