The song with no name played softly

Breathe, he said. You never really breathe. I look at you and you are like a mandolin on a shelf, waiting to be played. Tell me who you are so that I don't have to think you up. I don't just want your body, I want your soul.
I told him I couldn't do that. He would have to remain a chess piece in the game of my life. And I would be one in his. Too many things on the outside will prevent us from ever truly knowing eachother. Too many things will get in the way. If I let you too close, something will inevitably ruin us.
You look at me as though you are on a long drive. You aren't sure where you are headed but you go anyway. The immense world passes by you in your tiny window and it all makes you so tired, but you keep looking to see what is in front of you. Once alone the way, you pass a field of endless flowers and it is so beautiful that you decide to pull over. Maybe I can be those flowers, and you can lay with me for a while. But eventually the desire to see what is next will over take you, and you will leave.
I never wanted to believe that's the sort of thing that could happen, but is does. You showed me that it does, and I will never be the same. Sometimes you settle for what you know won't hurt, even if it doesn't ever really satisfy you.
And all of the breathing and the mandolins and the flowers will wait, until I know that everything else becomes less important to you.