I barely have the chance to thank you,
Sometimes,
Of how how you see me in the eyes,
Sometimes,
When you reach for me and touch my hand,
every night.

And I sit here doing nothing,
Typing this letter in the shape of poem,
Playing music in my head that goes to it.

How simple and brutal this,
Longing,
For the things I have and am,
Longing,
For all you wish I not were,
here and now.

And I sit here typing something,
Tired of the lack of status quo,
Playing music in my head to the end of tonight.