It’s nice— sorta
You were just there,
the first and probably only one
who made me feel even an ounce
of comfort
in a roomful of people
I didn’t know
and still don’t.
Like the morning I woke up
and cried until my eyelids swelled
up three times their size
and you made sure I slept,
and from then on, I’d call you
either hiccuping in between sobs
and heaving shoulders,
with my girly antics and my repeated
“why”s and “I’m so tired”s,
over heavy weight that didn’t seem
so heavy after you would
put things into perspective.
Like the night I half ran away from
my problems,
and did my usual parking
by a random tree
to chain smoke my worries away,
and I was bothered by the car that
inched so close to my window
just to see your half reprimanding
expression and hear your sigh
through the glass and cold space.
It’s nice to feel like someone
bothers, at all,
because they want to,
not because they have to.







