I am not far, as some would count the miles.
Mere hours separate me from my home.
This unfamiliar city, little trials,
has nights both long and cold. I am alone.
The streets are made of light as I ghost through them
from conference to hotel. I choose to hide.
The living walk and talk. I could speak to them.
I am not here, so I cannot decide.
My thoughts are fixed on those I hope are waiting,
wondering how their moments pass, their day.
Are they now, like me, anticipating?
Counting every minute? I ache to say:
"I'll be back soon." I'm empty when I'm gone.
I long for home - for now I just hold on.
