Still you tell me,
not to hold my breath,
unless I want to die
yet another death,
-that I shouldn't wait on you, except
I want to.
Though hardly as a fleck of gold,
that shot past my eye,
in spite of how I try,
I can't seem to stop wondering;
dreaming of that magic,
your sparkle.
I'd never seen anything like it,
and I feel I never will.
In some ways that's okay,
because then you remain special;
not replicated, not imitated,
but in one small, far away fancy,
appreciated.
