I peer at you through a telescope;

you, the Lyra in my starry winter sky.

Unforeseen, distant. 

I feel the rays of your sunshine 

hesitantly kiss my frost-bitten fingertips. 

You dance from my grasp.

How easy it is to have you:

many slave away for you. 

Many have died for you,

breathed your name as a last prayer.

Lykke, I have felt you through a stranger's smile, 

a car seat's warmth, a bite of cheerios. 

I have felt you leave through the accumulation of harsh words,

my pent up anxiety, my overarching hopelessness. 

My comfort is that I am not the only one; 

attaining you is life's eternal struggle. 

I am momentarily appeased. 

Why does my comfort send you farther from me?

I return to my telescope; I dream. 

I return to the frost; I dream.

Lykke, my vicious cycle, I return to you always.