Lost

It is hard to articulate whether
We should consider ourselves immature
Or certain
Perhaps lonely
But never, ever
Unfeeling

It is harder still to pinpoint
The spot at which
The nape of her neck
Mixes with the alarm bell in my head
And the uneasy feeling that someday
The world will actually grow up.

But the absolute hardest
Is the vision of perfection:
Romance and magic all blurred together
In a musical and literary climax
Entirely feasible
But never, ever

Found.