Eight years was  

how long it took for 

you to finally see 

what I’ve always 

hoped for you to see. I

am but a senseless 

wanderer, navigating 

through your 

bland signs and 

signals. How 

I’ve waited for 

those eyes to lock  

with mine and wed my 

future to that 

sight. Worlds apart as 

I sit, 

in the cold, 

​

waiting for your  

voice that feels 

like home. I 

used to picture 

a life where your 

soft touch would glide 

against my face as 

my alarm to the morning  

sun. But that moment, on Christmas

Eve, when our lips 

met, I felt tame. Gatsby’s 

kiss. Eight long  

years, brewed with  

anticipation, gone, 

unfulfilled. 

Was this what

 

it all was? Was it simply 

a meaningless 

chase that drained every 

inch of me—fatigued? A 

perishable breath. It was 

all better in my 

head. The 

destination 

is reached. 

The hunger 

dies once the 

goal 

is achieved.