Your eyes stray from my formulas

my poems don't impress you

my songs don't move you

my praises distract you

my fingers grow pale at the

sight of your skin

Your fine lips don't linger

on mine

But you see the little things

My grand gestures fail at the sight of

my ordinaries,

Your sense of these fumblings,

these less than perfect yearnings,

You are brave and i'm wrong

When I think you are like the others before,

I won't find you when i climb the mountain,

I've found you already on the pasture lands below.