It is searching for me
Inactively in what is alike me
Because it is too afraid to take the lead
Actively in what is not alike me
Because it is easy to sink into
It is searching for me desperately
In sweet high pitches that do not hold
It is waiting to be taken
Wishing its beauty to be stolen
But nothing does it
No more such lovely thieves
It is looking for me
In tiny inanimate objects
Because they fit into hands
And can easily break
It keeps seeking me
Consciously and unconsciously
Like all the others
Which could never again find
That thing they failed to name
