As latent potential erodes, your beauty housed in forgotten containers,

the violin without the bow, the harp without the strings,

you’ve stopped yearning.

When your name no longer gets written in dusty chalk on the blackboard

but caught in the foamy ridges of someone elses’ brush,

you’ve stopped befriending.

To get lost no more side by side with immature friends

crashing through the forest in less than suitable attire,

you’ve forgotten irrationality.

When your daily adventures look less like indentured servitude

and more like poetic phrases and the gentle turning of notes,

you’ve started seeing.