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.