Left Out in the Quiet
I stand just outside the moment,
like a name not called in a crowded room,
watching doors open for others
that stay gently, firmly closed to me.
You say you want me there—
but only when I cannot come,
as if my presence fits best
in the spaces already filled with absence.
I try to understand the timing,
but it bends in ways that break me—
my days off pass in silence
while others sit beside you with ease.
They have the hours I don’t,
yet somehow they are chosen,
their footsteps welcomed softly
where mine feel out of place.
It’s not just missed visits—
it’s the echo underneath it all,
the quiet question I can’t stop asking:
Why not me?
I carry that question heavily,
folded into every attempt to reach you,
every time I swallow the hurt
and tell myself not to feel it so deeply.
Because I do feel it—
in the spaces where I should belong,
in the love that feels uneven,
in the ache of being second, or third… or less.
I don’t need perfection,
just a place that feels like mine,
a moment chosen for me
when I am able to be there.
But instead, I linger here—
on the outside of something that should be home,
wondering how love can feel so close
and still leave me this far away.
