Poem: It Can Wait

I was not good at many things,

from trombones to violins to brushstrokes.

My mouth and hands did not know the way.

My brain did not understand how the curvature of a spine

melted the background of a frame.

If there was a way to siphon your talent from your veins,

I would have gladly taken it,

Even the syringe would’ve been kept for one

dark moment in time,

but your life was never meant to be mine.

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