I cry out for you,
to reach you,
touch you,
feel you,
but you are never there,
not actually,
I have a small part of you,
worth more than a soul,
a growing friendship,
is that what it is?
but I want more,
I want to be yours,
I can't be picky,
friends,
are better than strangers,
its better than being your nothing,
I cry,
asking why,
can't I be prettier?
is it better to be an occasional associate,
instead of an EX,
left with shattered pieces of glass,
to pick up with bare hands?
yes,
I'll back off,
I'll never be the one,
I'm glad to hear you're being more faithful,
I guess it's over for me,
gone, done, obsolete,
that is,
for me,
all there is left to do is cry,
'til my raindrops,
made by clouded skies,
soaks the window pane,
for that is what I feel,
dry up the rain,
and repeat again,
a cycle of sadness,
of crying out