I think we'll make it far,
my lover.

I think we'll make it far,
but I admit in late evenings
or when grief runs to the bone,
my thoughts wander
to vast unknowns—


to walking along a shore
with no footsteps
except for mine;

to leaving the country
where I know no name
no number nor sign;

to acting on maybe's,
chasing the sun
setting on the sea;

to being free;


Still I do not linger.
We'll make it far, dear lover.
To be free is not to be alone
I fear nothing but losing a home.