Two and sixty days ago —
Two months, or so I'm told —
I wandered, wistful, without cause,
Through a memory of old.

A hall of walls I wandered, tall,
As tall as tales I could weave,
But none as tall as this regale,
A story that you won't believe.

I walked near endless hours,
My only friends the cobblestones,
Ringing in my steps the sin
That only time atones,

When upon that pallid plaster
I did spy a shocking sight:
Upon that place's rocky face,
The wall had turned to light.

"Curious," I cooed and questioned,
Calm as I could never be,
"Perhaps it might be that this light
Is rightly mine, I see?"

And as I pondered that hall I wandered,
A chilling change I never chose arose:
That light so rife with delight and fright
Began to open, and I froze,

For that particular portcullis I pondered
Put me in a vice.
I nary noticed that walls in focus
Had changed into a hall of lights.

Transfixed, the light engulfed me so,
As slow as my bewildered head
Could comprehend the candid land
I planned my final stand in dead.

I whizzed through spaces, unknown places,
In stasis from the faceless force
When finally I fell, the frenzied light
Still tight from an unseemly source.

All at once, those two months
Became a fraction of a wink;
The frost was lost as I was tossed
Among the lights of what I think.

And where else would I find myself
But in this courtyard we call love?
My journey never left my head,
Nor bed's unconscious dreamland hub.

Two and sixty days ago,
I heard these words so true,
And in the dark they were my light:
You told me "I love you."

Perhaps for the last time,
I have fallen in love.

Does it betray me a fool
To so often fall blindly
For women I imagine
To match my ideal?

Perhaps it is not women,
But the same woman,
Over and over,
Since I first saw her
Occupying the same space
As some hapless girl
I had to have.

Perhaps it is desperation
Taking hold of a strange man
That finds little value
Without a symbol of idolatry
In the absence of religion.

Perhaps it is fear
In the shadow of absence,
As our most primal instinct
Is to find another
To weather our strange existence
Together.

Perhaps I merely wish
That the fits of longing would stop.
At least long enough
To get some work done.

Yet least likely of all,
And most shamefully,
Perhaps I just fell in love
With another pretty smile
With a brain to back it up.

Perhaps that is not so wrong,
Save for the volume
With which it occurs.

She does have lovely eyes.

Twenty-one miles,
Eighty-eight thousand steps.

Each day those numbers look a little bigger.

Each and every day,
Nothing on my mind
But those steps, big or small.

Yet every day,
I feel I could take
One more than the last.

One foot down,
Firm or fleet,
And then the other follows,
Like athletes, performers,
Perpetually fighting
To be at their best.

Is it so hard after ten-thousand steps
To trudge one foot a little farther?

Every drop of streaming sweat
Only a reminder of how far I have gone,
How much I have gained,
How close I could be.

Twenty-one miles,
Eighty-eight thousand steps.

Seems like a lot,
Sitting here
In my comfy chair,
Alone.

Would you get up
If happiness was
Just one step away?

How about two?

Just twenty miles
Until only one remains.

Yeah, I could handle one.

So I will bleed,
I will sweat,
I will ache,
But I will not wait.

Not until I've crossed
Twenty-one miles,
Eighty-eight thousand steps.

Little star,
Shine a moment more
For me.

I blinked,
And never got my wish.
*Please?