Fallen in love with an imaginary best self
floating tantalizingly close,
drifting seemingly in arm’s reach,
but to evaporate on contact.
Swoon for the nonexistent echelon
decomposing per yearly demands.
Malleable as we are by a mutually cursed condition,
brittle in the way beautiful is always broken,
we scramble for what cannot be searched
as though we’ll be the first to find it,
only to return with hands unsurprisingly empty.
( ❤ Mitch)