The Liked and the Loveless

They smile and nod, raise their glasses in empty salutes.

It’s always a pat on the back, a nod of approval, a fleeting grin that never reaches the eyes.

They like you, you see, for your jokes, your stories, as they pour you a drink and laugh at the correct times.

But when the lights dim and the crowd thins, there’s no one to hold you, no one saying your name like it means something.

You’re the life of the party, the joker in the deck, but no one knows your fears, the scars you hide beneath your skin.

They like you, sure, but love?

Love’s for the poets, the broken, the ones who bleed openly, who bare their souls and find solace in each other’s arms.

You’re the friend, the reliable one, the listener, but never the lover.

You’ve learned to drink the night away, filling the void with whiskey and smoke, watching the moon rise alone, wondering if anyone sees the real you.

They see what they want, a reflection of themselves, never the cracks, the fragments of a heart that doesn’t mend.

You’ll smile and nod, raise your glass in empty salutes, knowing the likes will fade and the loveless nights stretch on.

But there’s a fire in you, a stubborn flicker that refuses to die, waiting for the one who’ll see past the facade, who’ll love you not for the laughs but for the silent nights, the quiet battles, the truth in your eyes.

Until then, you’ll get liked but never loved.

The friend but never the beloved, drifting through the haze, hoping, dreaming, that someday, someone will see the man behind the mask.