How is it that I long,
No, yearn,
For a place I've never been,
Never seen,
Never touched
My toes to its land?

How is it that I pine,
No, crave,
For a home I've never lived in,
Never sat down in,
Never woke up
From peaceful slumber in?

How is it that possible?
To be so full of feeling
For that which I have only ever imagined:

Home where tranquility prevails;
Home where joviality reigns;
Home where love utter saturates.

Home where
My hands know their crafting dexterity,
My feet know their dancing steps.

Home where my heart beats.

How is this feeling more real
Than that which I have lived through?
For it is;
This longing tells me it is;
This yearning proves to me it is;
This craving solidifies its existence.

I want the intangible to become tangible.
I need the imaginary to be reality.

It's almost like you don't exist
Except for in my imagination.
And I'm more than a little curious
To know if that is why
Our friendship
Endures.
Of course, the painted portraits
In all our conversations
Detailing your myriads of adventures
Goes far to convince
Even the most skeptical
Of your factual existence,
And yet, you're like that imaginary friend
We all have at some point dreamed up--
The friend who just knows
Who we are and where we stand;
The friend with whom laughter
Is infectious and enduring;
The friend whose intangible presence
Gives far more comfort than a tangible touch;
The friend for whom every moment
Is about quality and not quantity;
The friend we always imagined we would have
But struggled to find in the real world.
And yet, there you stand,
Granted it's a thousand miles away.
But perhaps that distance is why
This friendship solidified as quickly as it did
And why it feels like it will endure all tests of time.
Or perhaps it's the simpler fact
That you and I
Are two sides to the same coin
In personality, ethics, morals, and justice,
And that you weren't made up by me
In my overly fanciful imagination;
For there is far more power and stability in reality
Than in one's conjured visualization.

The door framed
Her silhouette;
The only light
Casting in
The window
From the moon.
A hand held
To her lips,
But it was so dark,
No one could tell.
All they could see
Was the gentle bob
Of her head
And shake
Of her shoulders
As silent sobs
Coursed through her.

The door framed
Her silhouette;
And the night
Played a symphony
Of sounds--
The crickets
And frogs
Each greeting the next
As the cicadas chirped
Their own Hellos
In reply to
The wolf's lone howl--
Which masked
Her gasping breathes
As she lost control
Of her tears.

The door framed
Her silhouette;
And she fell to her knees
Unable to stand
Anymore
While the weight
Of her world
Pressed with great might
Until she cried Mercy
And surrendered.

The door framed
Her silhouette;
And I could only
Watch in the mirror.

Cicadas' chirp chirp
Buzzing fills the night; and I
Feel winter coming.

Dark moon rising; lone
Wolf cresting mountain tree lines
As the leaves fall down.

My hands are cold, numb;
Empty palms remind me of
Broken solitude--

Once they had been warm,
Once when yours held mine. But now
You are gone. It's cold.

Long nights and short days.
Winter has come; but winter
Was already here.