You don't see me

I'm a tree, on the side of a property, 10 feet from the road. I watch a bus drive past, full of kids, going home. Excited and chatting.
They don't see me.

I'm a rock, on the front of a beach, mere inches from where the tide reaches when it's high. I watch two newlyweds run into the water. Fits of giggles and pure joy.
They don't see me.

I'm a star, hundreds of millions of miles away from the Earth. I watch the solar system spin around each other in perfect unison. Content and alive.
They don't see me.

I'm the runt of the litter, smallest and weakest of the bunch. I watch a family of four come and pick out their first puppy. Cuddles and kisses. It looks nice.
They don't see me.

I'm a street lamp, tall and glowing. I watch two teenage girls walk up a driveway, hiding behind a bush to steal a kiss before they say goodbye. Romantic and secret. They don't see me.

I am not

I'm your student on the edge of the classroom. Quiet and hardworking.
You don't see me.

I'm your peer, smiling softly in the corner at your bad joke. Murky and distant.
You don't see me.

I'm your child, under the blankets of our scratchy, brown couch. Tired and wanting.
You don't see me.

I'm your second of two, trailing in the footsteps of your first. Overshadowed and underestimated.
You don't see me.

I'm invisible, dancing on the edge of existence but never quite appearing. Damned and forlorn.
You will never see me.

But that, I am.

Don't you see?

I am lone.