Perfect’s rare.
I’ve seen it.
I’ve held it in my arms.
A vision; a dream;
An angel.

Mine was no ordinary angel:
She had no wings,
she did not glow with
the glory of God
and her singing
was not much
to speak of.
In short,
she was wonderful.

My angel was young,
as I,
and came from rather closer than
far impartial
heaven.

Her eyes
(so very very deep)
were wise beyond her years
and mine.
They taught me to laugh
and cry
(a tear, no more, seriously)
perfectly.

But angels aren’t meant to be down here
with us, the weak
and fallen.
With me.
I know.
She knows.
And I’m scared,
just a little,
or maybe a little more than that.
Do I dare
touch heaven?
And
after that,
what then?

Perfect’s rare,
and fleeting.
You can’t keep it.
It burns through your life,
and maybe you’re consumed,
and maybe you’re not.

Sometimes there’s nothing you can do
Except
Try to hold the sun in your hands.