Mote

You are a spark
A scintilla blinking in and out
Until I am not sure
You were ever really there
You are sand swept by the wind
The Aeolian ghost of yourself
Born to sift through hair and brush unguarded lips
You are a gown made of spider-silk
Auric and gossamer as thistledown
Catching up everything in your stride
You are the sound of a plucked string
A word whispered
Wrapped in a little breath
Against the side of your neck

I try to snatch you out of the air
But you are already

Far

away.