What is it like,
And what shall I compare it to?
Is it like when you find the perfect shoes, but can’t afford them?
Or read the perfect book, and the sequel is never written, even though they promised?
It’s like that before you forget it,
Before someone else comes along,
Or you find that those shoes really aren’t that great, not a good fit,
Those perfect words turn ugly in your mind, and you keep on searching.
But I haven’t forgotten, or discovered something distasteful,  
I’m still hoping, longing, admiring,
Praying for a miracle, waiting for someone else.