If He Knew Me
He would know without asking, when the melancholy comes on. He would notice the way I hug myself, and the way I lean upon, the counter strewn with dishes, no desire for industry here. He wouldn’t have to ask, “is something wrong dear?”
He would know the well-worn path, my mind treads upon. He would see the distant look, and know that I was gone. He would notice the little things, the way my keys were thrown, upon the table with discarded mail, he would know, he should have known.
He would know my heart’s desire, but dreams are never shared, with one who doesn’t really know, by one who’s really scared. If he really knew me, he wouldn’t keep me here, a trophy for a dusty shelf, that means so little there.
He would see my heart’s not in it, never really was, and never ask the reason why, he’d know it was because, another fills my heart, no other could hope to touch. He’d know the melancholy, came, from hurting just too much.