the House of Love

I wonder if I was made to sit outside the house of love uninvited, cold and tired while the night gnaws at my exposed hands and face, peeping through the window in the back, desperate for just a little of the warmth I can see through the drapes - the warmth of lit candles and steam rising from kettles, of people listening avidly to stories they've heard before, of laughter to make someone else feel better, of smiles that trace lines of happiness across faces weathered by harsh experiences. I wonder if this was meant for me. If it ever was. I wonder what had signalled me from birth to remain on the outside, shivering and alone, too scared to ring the bell to ask whether I may join them.