Vignette: Something missing

I was born with something missing.

I've felt it nearby: in the bittersweet wail of a hip hop chorus; in a high mountain meadow on a summer day; in the woman with eyes lit from inside and a brain too big for her head, so its storms played over her face while she slept.

It floats just above the horizon as the day burns down, then flees for the other side of the world.

Until one warm night it lifts me and I wake up days away, ready to let hope replace history.

(I've gnawed on that puny introduction for years without success.  It's a pretty good indicator of why I should avoid "serious" when I write; but the Inner Cornball, roasting in the napalm oven of my soul, screams to be heard...)

The picture is of a painting I did in the early '90s; sweet as it is, I still love the color.