It's ironic that I keep addressing

these poems to you, to whom I'm confessing;

yet you will never read a single line,

just like you won't ever be mine.


We haven't much in common, truth be told,

you're a go-getter, and I'm not that bold.

You are the Fire - I merely smoke,

you're the real deal, I'm just a joke.

A reflection, a shadow, a distant dim glow,

the inklings of frost on a winter window.

Broken up pieces of soft sea glass,

a whisper that quickly will fade and pass.


You wouldn't even like this fluttery rhyme,

these wings without bodies that fly into time,

disappear in the veil of an anonymous abyss,

ephemeral sparkles that no one will miss.


My soul trickles into every verse;

not for a moment did I regret this curse.

It's bittersweet, this lovely pain,

your presence is a diamond rain -

sharp and brilliant, all in one.

You are the Moon, but also the Sun.