I didn't ask you enough questions

I didn't ask you enough questions.

I didn't ask what's your favorite star —

Can you see it with naked eyes, or is it too far?

I didn't ask what's your favorite cloud shape,

Or what color you usually use in tape.

I didn't ask what's your favorite moon phase,

Or your usual spot for a sky gaze.

I didn't ask what's your most usual dinner,

Or if you like your eyeliner thicker or thinner.

I didn't ask which one is your favorite plate,

Do you believe in consequences or fate?

I didn't ask if you like your phone number or not,

Or if you like your soup warm or hot.

I wanted to ask if I was your favorite person,

But fear kept saying the answer is: I am a burden.

I wanted to ask if you need me too,

But I guess I would have never knew.

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