Rules of the Game

Fallen in love with an imaginary best self

floating tantalizingly close,

drifting seemingly in arm’s reach,

but to evaporate on contact.

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Swoon for the nonexistent echelon

lauded incomprehensibly,

diverging perpetually,

decomposing per yearly demands.

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Malleable as we are by a mutually cursed condition,

brittle in the way beautiful is always broken,

we scramble for what cannot be searched

as though we’ll be the first to find it,

only to return with hands unsurprisingly empty.

( ❤ Mitch)