What It's Not

The wall was a washed pastel rose color

Through the window I could see something I once knew

There in the midst of shadows and sunlight
Love was rotating into the atmosphere

I vicariously felt the effervesce

It was robust and heady

I inhaled the aroma of the transcendent

I breathed it into my nostrils like old anticipation

I was hungry without the need of satiety

Memories like these are joyous in the pause

But they are fleeting

And not sure of foot

They are adolescent dreams

Churning in the cauldron of myopia

It is frothy butter

Without the purity of clarification

It is the souffle without loft

It is the finger taken for the Moon