She

She’s like a warm sunray, a beam.

I’m like an unearthed worm, obscene.

She’s like a sunflower in a field, facing the sky.

I’m the tear, when an eyelash is caught in the eye.

She's the ichor the buzzing bees manifest.

I'm the stench that foretells infection, gangrenous.

I am not fit for her, this need not be said,

But even the bullet can admire the head.