Can I be your shoes,
And walk between your shadows and above the grass?
Can I be your backpack,
And carry me off the train and up the hills?
Can I be your jacket,
And protect you from the wind and the sunshine?
Can I be your belt,
And pull you up, even when you don’t need me to?
Can I be your sweater,
And mask you from the pollution and confusion?
Because I can’t be your rug,
Sleeping next to your bunk bed.
Because I can’t be your phone,
Lighting up your darkness occasionally.
Because I can’t be your dress,
Hanging in your closet waiting for Sunday.
Because I can’t be your notebook,
Only holding your most important words.
Because I can’t be your house key,
Being used when you need to be home.