love, or like a whole lot, or whatever.

and i am only waiting for one to notice,

notice the distorted patterns in my left hand fingertips,

and the way i stand when i mean to be brave,

the smell of me stuck to my clothes,

or the sadness i hide from myself in content words

like landmines that collapse my stable structure moments after i speak them.

it's the little things that matter most

and i wait for someone to notice them,

to pluck them like tiny flowers, spin them between their fingers,

appreciate them and love them 

and press them between the pages of their favorite books.

occasionally i am just a little sick of being forgettable

and quiet in your heart.