It is
An apparition
that fades
in and out of the conscious
appearing at the beginning of a thought
and vanishing at the end

To search for it, is to wade through fog
Unclear, hesitant, and indistinct
But to finally catch hold of it
Is to hold the air
Weightless and formless

It sits in the corner, at the very edge
At the precipice of comprehension
As it draws near, within grasp, it is
The rich scent of apple pie
It is the feel of a warm and comforting embrace,
It is the taste of salt upon wet cheeks,
it is the sound of rambunctious laughter,
It is the sight of home…

Sometimes, it strikes
Like fierce lightning, both bright and undeniable
Other times it is the slow recognition
Of a steady sun rising above the horizon.
And yet when it leaves, it fades all the same
Like grains of sand held in one’s hand
Only to be spilled upon the beach, it is swept away by the sea.
Perhaps, one day it may once again
Be pushed upon the shores, to grace the conscious once more.