I sit on the couch, my room wrapped in warmth,
Books by my side, blankets a soft, safe swarm.
My phone buzzes—another call to care,
“Can we talk? I need help,” they share.
I breathe deep, I want to be there,
But the weight of their needs—do they ever spare?
I think back to the last time they came by,
Just for me, just to sit, just to smile, no reason why.
I type back, fast, “Of course, I’m here,”
But the sadness rolls in, soft yet clear.
Do they see me, more than a shoulder to cry?
Or just someone to hold them when they sigh?
They arrive, I listen, heart wide, open and true,
Help them sort the storm they’ve come to spew.
But deep inside, I’m still yearning, too—
For someone to care, for someone to view.
As they leave, I say, “I’m always here,”
But the echo inside feels hollow, clear.
Will there be a time when someone stays for me,
To hear my fears, my truths, my plea?
