Curious fly with your thousand eyes, what is it that you see in me?   Today I am     your flower and you are        my bee because   it seems you can’t get enough   of me. Have I forgotten to wash this     and that patch     of skin? Or were     you meant to   light the night within? I want     to crush you with my hand. I want       to map you with my       words and hopeless plans. You are Plato’s     Ideal that which cannot be   touched. Perhaps       then between you and     me this is enough.