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.