At the bottom of everything

Sometimes I think I’ve accidentally found the wrong way of living.
almost like I stumbled across this world like a half-eaten sandwich
left on a table on a coffee shop where the sun streams in slowly
across the room but never quite manages to reach it.
like it’s waiting, it’s waiting to be comforted, or to be
forced out. Or perhaps, somedays I am a half drank cup of coffee
left out for an hour in the snow. Left for no one and everyone.
maybe I am simply waiting on a kitchen counter before you rush off
to work and almost forget to pick me up. But the sun still streams
across the floor and it falls on me this time but your hair fall
in the way. There is a wave on the floor, and the shadow of your hair
likes to dance with me. Always there but still half a room shy of
holding my hands. I like to think that I am being brave by dancing
with you but I’ve barely felt anything since the sun’s hit me.
most days I am a morning that’s forgotten it’s happiness, like my
hands are there, and they are real and more present than they’ve
ever been but they’re not being held.