Spending time with you is like climbing a mountain.

I march confidently onwards, less than wary of the dangers hidden inside of you; you can shut me out as easily as a rockslide will crush my frail human body, and I will start back over.

There is beauty in you, but I have to prod and pry to get there because you are as stubborn as the hard-packed ground beneath my feet, content to conceal your secrets while I hand away my own.

And yet as open as I allow myself to be I feel as a stranger to you, as if I know you easily without words but you know nothing, nothing with all the words I have given you.

I am but a voice among a thousand other voices, a wanderer among a thousand other wanderers. I hold no special place, no secret meaning, no matter how much I long to.

I am nothing to you.