It's cold in here,
this corner, and crammed -
there is only room for one, who,
usually, is me;
This is the spot I'm reserved.

Funny, isn't it
how the shadows drape over my body
like invisibility;
You cannot see me but cleary,
I can see you, moving about
amongst the group of
brightly coloured people,
every move that you make recorded in my head.

I can get jealous of your social richness,
your simple mind, your face
heavy in paint.
Sometimes I wish I can think
like you, but then
I like being the mysterious one every
once in awhile.

It's a shame that they don't give me a
chance to shine,
brightly coloured, like them,
but I think this may have been of my own making -
this cold and isolated corner
probably does not even exist;

after all, there can be no corners in a space
with no walls.