It sits there, fragile, just beyond your outstretched fingertips. Your palm splays open, laced with patterns of memories and hardships, wounds healed leaving only scars to rest atop your hand. Yearning, reaching, grabbing, pulling; each and every fiber of your soul aches with the pins-atop-needles exploding out from underneath your cracked-and-raw ribcage. This shadow of a dream, this glimmering apparition of an aspiration glints within the light, casting hollow dusts of light upon your hand-- teasing with their illusion of the final most glorious, "wonderful thing". The one which you have imagined, replayed within the stereo of your mind so many hundreds of times. This one, bittersweet moment of candy and indian summers cascades upon your tingling, baited breath. It sits and waits, as you reach and reach. Never quite touching, more than brushing, the tips of your heart-pounding fingers.
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