I've seen you before. Yes, I've been a witness on both the inside and the outside of the circles you've managed to find, entangling them in yourselves as you spin and spin, closing them into your game of swirling scent, quick as a flask shot through the moonlight on the coldest night.

But I haven't given you a name yet. How could I? It's the unnameable syndrome I still see in such rare occurrences. But I know the signs by heart, for it's there at the heart that you lick. Yes, I know the signs: the freedom you hold which allows you to dance on air, as if you were so light and pure that not even in the most harrowing dreams would you allow yourself the crushing weight of the world seep into your fingers. And we showered you with our love, our affection, left notes under your door, left roses in your mailbox, giving you an urgent kiss for every step you took when you stepped into the room. It was the softness, it was the spirit, but most of all it was the purity. A purity that flowed so freely that we, yes, even I at one point, would try desperately to lap up, to hold onto even the smallest drop to keep for ourselves, as if we could cleanse ourselves. But no, the drops were too quick for us, and instead we grasp for futile fateful air.

But you're the most curious thing. Yes, you are intoxicating, yes, you are enchanting, and yes, you are that which we desire. But your perfume only runs for so long; even wood burns into ash completely eventually. Like the brightest bulb, your wires eventually burn out, the gas becoming stagnant; useless. A curious artifact of that which still is, only changed forever, and a permanent fixture never to make itself relevant again. The spark is gone.

But I could swear for those few moments when you were bright, we could breathe and drink and live on your electricity, your flood of light that bathes us so. For those few moments we were so close to heaven, we could almost taste you, and taste you we eventually did.

The sweetness never leaves; for it is forever trapped in our shirt pockets as we walk towards the ever present morning.