Yearning for Connection

The table's worn grain, a whisper of hands,

where I sit with distance, just shifting sands.

A stranger’s fingers linger, trace like a line,

I ache for that touch, a moment divine.

Between coffee sips, our eyes briefly meet,

a pulse in the air, soft warmth in the seat.

I want the spark, that flicker of flame,

not just a facade or a quiet name.

In my cluttered room, walls echo my fear,

a longing for closeness, but nobody near.

I curl into shadows, hoping for grace,

the simple connection of a hand on my face.