Perhaps you skirted along just outside my peripheral vision, eluding my gaze that was seeking you so avidly.
It may be that I once held you in my eye as I never held you in my arms, not knowing of the promise of you that filled my iris.
Did I pass you on the street like a southern wind? Have I shaken your hand, held that calloused palm so firmly within my own and then carelessly let it go again?
That would be the irony of my life.
Many times I believed that I had found you, saw your meager shadow in the faces of men who shared my bed and tasted my kisses, but still your flavor eluded my tongue.
I have come to the conclusion that your are a wraith of my Dreaming, a phantom sculpted by my fevered brain. I have ceased to grasp at the straws you offer and sup on the bones you leave me, so when you finally come to claim your prize, you may find it has been taken by another.
Such is the way of things.