I envy those whose hands can hold beauty— within, and with them— how it stays, how it glows for them. Once, I held a Sun in my hands— radiant, alive, and far too bright. But I failed to understand it, failed to respect it, failed to hold it gently. So it flew away. I let it fly away— before the fire turned us both to ash. Now, I search for another. Now, I long for a flower— one that might fall softly into my hands, or appear— an unexpected beauty I could never imagine.