Come to the museum with me.

come to the museum with me, and we'll spend a day in each other's silence.

i'll come in a dress maybe, with hopes to impress you. we'll say hi to one another awkwardly, and we'll enter the museum together, one after another instead of side by side. i like to be quiet at the museum. to look at things--the dioramas, the information, the details, to just take in everything in a single breath if i could. my eyes become greedy momentarily, but not for you. i take in all of the beauty i see in the photographs; where you deem unattractive, i may find it exquisite. the music is soothing but silent, like a whisper of the wind, almost non-existent. just like your voice.

i admit to myself that your very existence and presence distract me. i try not to let you see how burnt my cheeks are from just looking at you; from hearing your voice to feeling the slight brush of your hand or even your clothes--completely drunk with infatuation. i'm filled with curiosity, and you become my museum.

you are a chamber of mysteries, brimming with expectations and disappointments, all waiting to be uncovered. maybe you don't let people in as easily. maybe you're too used to having a front. maybe everyone else has made you that way. maybe you're an alcoholic. maybe everybody hates you and you're a complete jerk. maybe you've experienced abuse. maybe you have a million stories to tell, all of them lies.

there are so many maybes.
and i will never find out, because you'll never come to the museum with me.

because the impossible is also a possibility.