The “almost gave -ups” pile on the attic,

Like forgotten memories in cardboard boxes.

I revisit them from time to time to remind myself

Why I even bother to try to find the missing piece.

It would be easy to forget about the stubborn desire.

There’s no glory, no satisfaction in the search,

Only dark, pitiful, ungraceful misery,

And trillions of unrealised and repressed hurts.

But, somehow, every time I’m losing my patience,

The glimpse of “happilly ever-after” teases my greedy eye,

And I shut up, stand up and try for millionth time

To grab the tail of the bluebird.