I Wrote This For You

asks you if he can spend the night on your couch, even though it
stinks.
Because you sniff. But you do not smell.
And they say “Just OK” when you ask them how school was.
Then you wonder what they’re hiding until you find their diary
and the last entry reads “I wish you’d give me some privacy.”
Because you listen. But you do not hear.
And they’ve got a bruise over their eye and you run the tips of
your fingers over it and ask them how it happened. You believe
them. Until it happens again.
Because you touch. But you do not feel.
And they walk past you everyday, one million stories, each
waiting to be told. Waiting for you to ask.
Because you live. But very few, love.
"****** DEMO - www.ebook-converter.com*******"