I am a child
curious and confused,
wanting to touch what is forbidden and reach for what i cannot hold.
You are a shelf stacked high on the wall
afraid that i will one day grow to see that your trophies
are only there to distract from the dust.
Afraid that you are plain and

I am a bee
fast and yellow and
not opposed to stinging when i am afraid.
But you are a flower that will not bloom
afraid to be sucked dry and left
with nothing.
Yet i come back to you, waiting
spring after spring after spring.

I am a composer
resting my hands on the keys
I want to play you just right, from the first sigh to the least tear
But you are a song more impossible than any other
with rhythms that change before i can remember how to play them
with notes that always on the verge of something so beautiful
if only i could find the right key.

Perhaps you are not meant to be written.