It’s a thing like a bubble. There is something wonderfully magical about it, how it holds its shape, its round perfection, and yet you can see right through it.
It lingers, still.
It drifts on currents, rising, falling like a slumbering breath. It holds all of the colors in the spectrum enticing the senses, inviting the senses.
Unrequited love. Love. Unrequited. Untouchable. Unknowable. Suspended. Belief. Suspended belief. Suspended in disbelief.
I could reach out. I could. A finger. A touch. Just one. Just once. I could reach out and touch this one this once. This thing like a bubble. There is something wonderfully magical about it.
This one.
This once.
Unrequited love.
Categories: Literary Lounge
Morning Pages 
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