Typhoon 8

The waiting starts as the typhoon does, the cover of my book: 
a bright turquoise green, a splash of neon pink, 
(as I write this, our song starts playing through my headphones, it makes me sad). 
My door is slightly ajar, my back faces it, 
I glance up at every passing shadow, I beckon
but none of them are you, so I continue reading Flowers for Algernon.  
The wind picks up and at least I'm not alone anymore, 
although I would rather be, because the wind is not kind, 
the wind mocks me for having no self respect, 
for valuing communication while not being communicated to, 
so I check my phone again, there are many people dangling 
but none of them are you, so as you leave me, 
I leave them hanging. 
My interactions with the people closest to me 
remind me never to have expectations, 
but to not have expectations means I will never get to let people in, 

and I wanted to let you in.