It’s hard to love a fleeting thing.

There’s a certain beauty that can only be observed from a distance.
Like children and soap bubbles – running around chasing this elusive thing.

For a moment, it rests on you.
For a second, you held it.
Fragile, glittering, light as air.

But you know it’s on its way.
And soon, no more.

And yet.
And yet they laugh and play, knowing all this.
As though the fated farewells do not matter.
It does not detract from their joy.

The children, the soap bubbles.

To love and be loved.
And permitted to love.

What mysteries.