The best of life is left unlived:
the mass of moments absent mind,
explosions over in an instant
that leave a trace of warmth behind.
An afterimage of la petite mort,
the comfort of oblivious sleep;
the edges of experience blur
and hint at blisses we can’t keep.

The best parts lie just out of grasp,
we tell ourselves; we keep content
to live beyond the reach of joy
until our lives are fully spent.

These fleeting things that sight can’t bear,
these haunting ghosts of ecstasy,
leave deep lacunas lingering
in yet-unwritten history.
They leave the dreams of coming days
dyed in inverted afterglows:
the ache for something yet to be,
a secret glee that no-one knows.

So this, it seems, is pleasure’s form: 
a blip upon the radar screen.
Chased with dauntless vigor, 
but hardly ever seen.