You are not the love interest.
You will never be seen under flourescent lights at a party,
making others melt into the floor.
Nor will you be spotted picking wildflowers in linen along a sleeping stream,
a human fawn.
You are not the whisper of a woman that we were promised,
not the willowy blonde with mournful eyes in The Director's wildest dream.
You are too flat.
You, The seven seas in a ceramic bowl.
Angel in a shot glass.
I feel you in the lace of a cheap dress and the valleys of my spine.
Are you too much?
Or Are they not enough?