She holds her red balloon and delicately says

“be careful with it.

This is an object I treasure.

This is a thing I love.

Do not damage this gentle

possession. It is mine

and I would be loathe to lose it.

This is my soul,”

she says,

“Do not damage it.”

I look over this object of affection.

“It’s a balloon,”

I say,

pin in hand.

It will be a very long time

before I see any other balloons

and when I do, I suspect,

they will not be hers.