98.

Don’t tell me it’s pathetic
as if I don’t already know it
that this staying up nights
fretting, enjoying, reading
all too much into all too little
is below me; I know it isn’t
It’s familiar, my desperation
is palpable, if a stranger
isn’t in love with me
then who am I; if I can’t
attach someone’s broken heart
to my undoing; am I alive

I want more than I am owed, again
I will sleep until he calls, again

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