Sadly, the balloon leaves you,
its featureless, almost silken face
wobbling like a toddler in the cold,
the sorry string devoid of hand.

I am not the only one to notice.
Up, and further up, this hollow
blue-skinned sac rises,
a rogue comma against sky.

Now you only know what left you,
cheap, fleeting colour blush, nothing like
what will leave you in time to come,
how your cries could pierce the night.