67.

The image always remained unbroken,

in the unspoilt perfection of a dream.

Finished in gloss, unspoilt and frozen

It always stared out at me, framed in wanting, right in sight but so far away from touch.

Taunting.

A painful reminder of the perils of waiting, waiting until the feeling freezes.

Fading.

And then all that’s left is the view.

A view that taunts and whispers when you wish it would shout.

That gently brushes past you when you wish it would grab hold and crush you into submission.

And remove itself from doubt.

Its meaning changes as the light forces reflection but somewhere, buried beneath the ever changing need, there is a want that remains.

Somewhere.

Nothing can be lost if it was never possessed, but if a feeling is felt, then is not also yours to keep?

And if to keep? To have? And if to have, to lose?

And if to lose, to try and try and try to regain?

But images fade and dreams disintegrate and so nothing is set as it once began to form.

The image remains.

But the memory changes, tinted by the feelings it brings as you recall.

But it remains.

And you chase.

And even though the image is always where you last left it,

You never seem to catch it.

You’re always too far behind.

Chasing the shadow of a ghost which was never really there.

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