Your soft hair gleams in the light,
a morning selfie that graces my feed.
The more I gaze into your deep eyes,
the longer I feel as if could fall into them, longingly wishing to tell you,
how much I adore you.
That I, am in awe of your unconcious beauty,
perplexed by your layered originality.
Like a poet with a new novel, I so desperately desire to read farther into you,
yet be gentle as if I am handling a hundred
year old book.

But I, I am no one.
Not a complete, not a singular.
I am merely stiched from pieces of others,
a poor art collage of a human.
Hopelessly, I cannot possibly aim to be even half of what you are,
or that,
which you surely will become.