I’m sorry that I don’t make you feel as if
you could stand on the sun
and not burn your feet
or as if your summer days could last years.
I’m sorry that you don’t believe that
when with me
you could do anything,
that your possibilities are endless
or that finite is no longer in your dictionary.
I’m sorry that I don’t fill you, with
a consistent cool breeze of happiness
or a sickly sticky amount of pride.
It’s just that, sometimes
I hold the sun so close to you
that my hands burn,
and my arms ache from stretching out the good days
and compressing the bad.
Sometimes, my nails bleed
from scratching all essence of the finite
from your every chapter
and my smallest hairs stand on end,
cold from the ice I feed you
in even your most fiery moments.
And even with my hands burnt and bleeding,
with heavy arms and ice forming on my nape,
I find that I still only feel sorry,
I’m sorry that I don’t make you feel as if
I’m there at all."