The melodies you create
are beautiful and intricate,
yet they break along uncertain edges
and falter when the notes are too high.
My heaven did not make you.
My miniature Beethoven,
who counts his days in treble clefs and
who writes in E minor
and sings fortissimo at the crack of dawn,
– Cara, you're eyes are sad with hunger
for a beauty you cannot compose.
You seek inspiration
as it floats through walls,
never once still, haunting these museum halls.
I would be Botticelli for you
if only I could paint. But all of me
is all I have.
It seems can never offer you enough.