What I am

I am poetry scribbled on post-it notes littering your desktop.

I am campfire smoke soaked into curls tickling your chin

I am sprained backbone, stuttering at the microphone, forgetting my lines quite often.

And piles of books pushed into the shelf all summer

I am untuned piano keys that make beautiful music

I am the raging fire of a candle wick

I am a great story with a terrible ending

And I will always be too much for you.

 

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