The thought I meant to write
was lovely and serene, but gone
before I found the words to make it stay.

Perhaps it had the wrong address, was meant
for someone else and fled, embarrassed to be seen
instead by me;

Or maybe it was floating free
And somehow blundered into me
But barely made a dent and didn’t stay;

Or it could have been a wayward dream
Stranded on this side of sleep
Waiting for the night to slip away;

Most likely just a thought of mine,
But one I couldn’t grasp in time,
And remember as the thought that got away.