An Ode

It is 2 in the morning.
Stealthily, you come
The rustling of paper is all that wakes me.
A movement, a sqeal.
I must leave.

All that remains is a memory...
and a trail of sugar,
Like blue sand across my floor.
The dip stick bears a faint record of your teeth,
but all other traces have vanished.
Like you.

Where have you gone,
on your insane sugar high?
A wall?
Magicked into the ether?

And more importantly...
Will you come back?