There is something about them
Isn’t there?
There is love and tension at the same time
Harnessed and so vulnerable,
Like wings, like music.

There are so many things
That can bury,
That can bruise you
But not them.

In fact it is like they never touch you
Even when your hands are touching them.
Something so soft it can only be held
But never hold.

But they are never really there,
Are they?
Even when you have it with you
It’s only a replica, a reincarnation
Like wings, like music.

And it too will die soon,
Cause only death can hurt it.
And then it shall be gone forever.
Except for its fragments,
That harnessed what we loved about it so much.
Those pieces live ignored,
The colored open shell-
Splatters in landfills,
No one thinks about that,