Will you see me,
hiding under the bed
in fear of rejection,
when all I wanted
was your looking me
in the eye, smiling
upon my existence,
a tender touch of my face,
a word of kindness?

The child still hides
within the adult breast.

For a time, couplets were my thing. Recently, the muse settled upon the shoulders to write quatrains (single stanzas with four lines). There seems to be no rational explanation for it. It is what it is. Accept and write.