You were sitting there, having a glass of wine,

And I commented on the melody splendour of a dress paled

In comparison. You had roses between your fingers, each

One peddled in between a nest and a fancy. The small beads

Were twirled and twisted, and I could tell what you were

Trying to say. They gave me the way to your soul, these roses.

It had been a bright, starry night, and we had been drinking

The usual champagne. The blue orbs I could see from afar

Were glistening, glowing and howling against the moon.

I could not see anything beyond you, you and your red wine

And your blue lights flashing a fancy. I could not surpass the

Redness of the wine you were drinking; it was red as a ruby.

But that did not faze me. There was something else, something

Special that began to faze me. It was indefinable, uncategoriseable,

And seemingly unseen. Nobody else could see the reality of this

Special moment. It was a star. And it was special because for once,

The sky did not need to be bountiful. The stars did not need to shine

Like a newly polished floor. And the hums of melody did not need to

Be silenced. All was right.

The colours of this special moment were different, narrowed somewhat,

And existentially clean. There were mixes of blues and reds and whites

And blacks. Yet not one smudge had broken. Not one glisten of frost had

Frozen. And not one heart had broken. The blues and reds and whites and

Blacks were mixed together and broken into pieces; into a million different

Sparkles, speckles more like, of dust and sand. They were then scattered

About the globe, brightening a little on the way. The dust became silver;

The sand became gold.

This one second in time was unleashed, unsuppressed. But somehow,

we had managed to break it. You and your wine, me and my sparkles,

and them and their sand. We are all connected by our sand; some of us

have a little more than others. But once a year, at the special time,

a box will be received, and what will be inside?