Tarnish

On being afraid to reach out. Another old poem I dug up.

You are the hundreds of flowers 
I never picked.

You are the dust layers on old furniture
I never brushed off.

You are the yellowed paper 
I never wrote on.

You are the flickering flame
I never extinguished.

You are the song
I never sang.

You are all the perfect imperfections
I never lay a finger on

For fear of tarnishing it all 
with my imperfect perfections.