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.

too loud.

too much.

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?