Why

The curtains are about to rise

They want me on the stage

But I am here staring at my phone

Waiting for your message

 

The show ends with a million claps

The stage turns dark as the curtains fall

I sit in the corner, with the phone in my hand

Waiting for your call

 

Autographs and photographs they want

The fans have waited all night

At the cheering crowd I stare

But you are so much out of sight

 

Twenty two messages next morning

But not a single one from you I see

Why are you so hard to talk to?

And why does that matter to me?

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