Fingers

My fingertips ache for something I can’t name,

aching for warmth, the heart's quiet flame.

I watch lovers entwined, laughing so free,

while I cradle my tea, steam curling like me.

Every glance from a stranger feels like a ghost,

a longing so deep, yet it’s silence I host.

These walls are too sturdy, this space too confined,

while the world dances past, leaving me blind.

Oh, to feel the soft brush of someone near,

like light filtering in through a well-placed tear.

Yet here in the stillness, my heart whispers low,

for warmth that eludes, a touch that won’t show.