There it lay
At 2pm
On a Sunday
The withering balloon,

Creeping along
At 3pm,
Hissing out
It’s helium soul
Through a fingered hole.

Wheezing still
At 4pm,
It lasted well,
Far too well,
The dead rubber shell.

Wrinkled flat
At 5pm,
Pity and pain,
No longer a game.

The balloon,
A picture of childhood innocence,
A picture of simplified love,
Now lies flapping,

But my dreams
Still walk behind you
Silently smelling
Your fresh perfume trail.

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