She sits upon perfection’s perch, across a bar in which I search for something more distracting than the fact that she exists but is entirely apart from me. She is a work of art to me. I only wish her heart could see what mine has come to wish:
That is, for some plane of existence — some imbalanced, strange dimension — where a goddess pays attention to a regular who blends into the places that she visits.
Is it a possibility at all? Or is she not for me to call a love, or lust, or passing fling? A sudden burst of passion singing through me says perhaps that we could be a happy ending if we managed a beginning.