He thought he was rare
Bt I see with clear eyes
The treasure was me
Not the man in disguise.

“What do you hate the most?”
“Waiting.”

“What are you best at?”
“Waiting.”

Am
I
wrong

to
love
you

Every man
I meet
is nothing
but a shadow
of you

Every laugh
every touch
every word
reminds me
I can’t
I won’t
I don’t
have you

It’s not distance
It’s terror
If you see me
really see me
I’ll destroy
us
before you can

I want you
so much
it hurts
it twists
my chest
my stomach
my head
into fire

You deserve
everything
I can’t give
anything
I can’t
I won’t
I shouldn’t

So I watch
I wait
I rot
I burn
I ache
I bleed
quietly
alone

Even in silence
I burn for you
Even in stillness
I am empty
Even in the ache
I still want you
I still need you
I still love you

And it
kills
me

I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?