When my thoughts drift towards a certain young man.
I begin to admire his solid structure.
Tracing over every edge, stamping his image on the back of my eye lids.

Dreaming, dreaming of a soft, tender embrace.
Feeling, feeling like that will never take place.
For this young man has found solace in solitude.

As I visit him, filled with history that cannot be thrown away.
In his museum, he is there, at the centre, a piece of art.
But still only a statue...refusing to move.
Refusing to yield a warm touch.

Who is truly foolish?

...I can only expect so much from a statue.