You keep jumping from this pedestal
Which I had made for you. You say
That it's constraining, and I see why
You would think it so. Perfection's
Largely artifice. When you attempt
To mold yourself to it, you give up
Who you know you really are, and, anyway,
You can't be sure how long I'll be so sold
On you. This prop, and my love with it,
Could be quickly snatched away,
Awarded to somebody else. I must
Concede that that is true, but can't you
Humor me, and climb back onto it
A while?