What we are is a jigsaw
pieces that come together
searching for edges that match
some we know will never sit:
a sideways glance, a crush,
a lifelong regret;
some we think will last, but no
we stick around a while
and then we know we are meant
for other things, other people,
other places but mostly
just being othered
some of us are corner pieces
who know where we are and
who will come to find us
eventually
I can only wish I was that
and some of us are that piece
that doesn't fit
neither color nor shape nor corner
we force it sometimes, set it aside
for some later unfulfillable hope
until it is too late to realise
we were left over from another
puzzle, with only the longing
to fit, to belong, to be included
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