A book I’ll never write

I don’t know why when I close my eyes, I don’t see a face behind them. Just an empty feeling, longing, to be somewhere I’ll never see, to love someone I’ll never meet. I wish to be anywhere but here. Home. A place I’m stuck in, with overcast skies and raindrops that make it seem like I’m crying. When in reality I’m dying. But only emotionally. Even metaphorically. Never physically. And as much as I wish I were, sometimes I’m glad, because as much as I know (or as others say “believe”) that I won’t, the people that love me hope. Hope that I’ll see the blue skies and sunshine, in another home. One that I can call my own. Perhaps with the lover that I’ll never meet, or I do-meet them that is, its improbable that they’ll understand. Not the sadness that I swirl around in, or the clouds that I use to protect my eyes from the sun. For what am I to them, if I am nothing to myself.

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