such flowery terms lovers speak

touches of affection only lovers do

oh so little I know myself

so little I have nothing

I am the silent observer

standing untouched on the opposite side

outside reality

some things you will never learn

unless through love and desire

of oneself and to another

I only know tears of what I have never known

tears of pity for what I will never know

because no such things have ever touched upon me

I have lost faith in their appearance

silly me! I am not the only one for sure!

yet is that reason for me to still the thoughts and feelings within?

and wonder why no one has ever seen me?

am I selfish and complaining?

or human and longing?

they say ‘wait and see’

but I have waited and seen and nothing has come

not even close

as though I am a caged animal

who will never truly interact with the life outside

a part of the world but closed off

a barrier stands between us

people come and go

they see me but forget me again

moving on

always moving on

they may come back but they will never stay

although my heart silently roars

not meant for such a cage

it is beyond my control

I have tried my best

I do not know how to deliver myself

without becoming someone else

I do not recognize

always alone all my life

I never pretended to be anyone else

honesty was supposed to be saluted

not caged

not invisible

not forgettable

I have lived a quarter of my life and already I feel so old

thoughts turned bitter towards things I have never known

spoilt from early age

with the illusive expectancy of love when young

that never came

and as the years went by

in a painfully tranquil version of coming-of-age

I grew to learn that luck was with me

in anything but here

that I could seek out and grab what I wanted

anything but this

that this was something else

something I might never touch without getting burned

knowing only slurs or disinterested pleasantries from those potential ‘princes’

I have nothing but the worlds of fiction, dreams and imagination

scared to seek out the faces of the boys turned men


by the reality of my childhood experiences

by the knowledge of the workings of men gathered through the years

and by my idealistic hope that a true ‘prince’ is out there

I do not need one to find myself

I have already found myself

yet no one has found me

remembrance of only me discovering the world

handling things on my own

and proudly so

so important – if not the most important – like so many say

but should it always be so?

should that be my only memory?

those few who live over a hundred years champion single life

why cannot life as it is be enough?

why do I seem so greedy and pitiful?

yet I do not ask for much

only this

let me have this

just once


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