This Is Real

You heard me all those times,
though I doubted all of it.
All my words now in songs
used for your fictions,
used to fulfill the emptiness.

The world listens again
to your confessional pleas,
as I remain a safe shadow
of the girl I never was.
I have little left
besides my heartbreak
of the fact that I really feel
and I really hear
the one person
I will never really have.

You say, "It isn't up to me"
as if you believe in fate.
You tell me, "I didn't choose this"
as if this will all disintegrate.

I remind you, "I have offered you
a way to reach out to me.
I will never betray your name
and I will never betray your trust,
if you simply offer me
just one moment in the flesh
what has been only in the mind."

And years of waiting are extended
as we both remain in familiar lives
and as I still pray for you
to negate all of your denials
with just one letter, just one note
that isn't made for everyone else.

Nothing has changed,
I still feel you with me,
and hear everything
you choose to tell me.

Everyday, it is just
one question that I repeat, now:
"What do I do to end the waiting?"