It seems you are always at my fingertips
But never in my grasp,
A dream
From which I am always
Woken too soon.
I can only remember your face
As the sun crests above the horizon
And then you are gone to me.
A shadow, a shade, tendrils barely reaching my waking mind.
How can a memory,
Which is barely one
Affect me so.
I am sick to the point of grieving
over the memory of you.
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