I’d ask how you are,
but there’d be no truth.
I’d ask if you’re okay,
but you’d never answer.

I’d stop you in the street,
but your feet would keep on walking.
Sit at your table,
laugh with you over coffee.

I’d tell you the things I should have said,
I’m sorry you’re a good friend,
just the way you are,
As I sit, watching you from afar.

But you kept on walking,
and I kept on hoping,
you’d look back,
and see me waiting.

Am I a fool for waiting?

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