The folly of wishful thinking

It started in the pit of my stomach
rising, the way bread dough rises
in warm soft breaths
feeding on itself, taking tiny pockets
of air, dividing, dividing again
champagne also, ferments in this way
conjuring exquisite bubbles out of nothing
but the simple, basic act of breathing
fizzing over like a shook up bottle of tizer
popping candy of the heart
I held the essence of it, I thought it would last
it tickled my nose, then
it was gone, leaving only thin cold air