I don't say it much -
how deep the hunger is, to be loved.
how I give my heart so easily,
yet long for one to hold mine.
How I ache to be truly seen,
not just glanced at.

I love the way a photo can catch a moment of me,
how I wish my birthday meant more than just another day gone by.
I crave the weight of a letter, written by hand,
words shaped just for me,
and flowers picked with care, not out of habit -
as if someone looked at a bunch and thought,
this one is for him.

Or maybe, I just want arms to wrap around me,
to feel, even once,
that I'm not the only one keeping myself whole.

But I keep quiet.
I don't say how much I want to be loved.
Because what if, after all these words,
no one loves me at all?