#198

She was like a shooting star—
a comet truest to her name,
that happened by once in a silver moon,
oceanic in depth and hue.

She bore beauty, mystery, and perhaps, too,
his many wishes.

But her stay,
like that of all comets that chanced upon him,
was fleeting.

And all he could do was watch,
hope for a second time,
and wish along the many lines.

All these,
on her way,
she carried.

And just like that,
she became a memory—
his memory.

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