There is such a willingness to subscribe to enduring the distance when the destination is ultimately you.
I wander as you sleep...your horizontal body aligned to the horizontal walkways I trudge upon, my steps coming nowhere close to where you are...rather I will need a man-made machine to fly me closer.
So my walk has no purpose, except to remind me that I am awake and you are likely not.
Are you dreaming? Are you discovering in your sleep? Are you remembering?
Somewhere out from this speck of airport there is snow...not here. But out there, falling in a reminder of cold climates and mid-Fall storms.
Not here...the night is tepid, the warmth of bath water.
Out there is rain, but not here. No delays or impact to this perfectly hewn night. It is a perfect night to travel.
But in beds where there is snow lovers cling and clutch to each other, beneath blankets and wools, warming each other with their embrace. In beds where there is rain lovers listen to the whir of the sounds on the roof...the white noise relaxing them, drawing them closer. Maybe a fire is still spitting and blinking orange and black embers as it dies in a library fire-place.
Not here...the perfect weather lies out there in the blackness...I'm vertical and you are not here at all.
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