There isn’t anything out there,

Said a friend one afternoon

And for two years

Earlier.

What’s out there that’s worth

Tearing up over on a

Regular basis, pining,

Wondering, fantasizing?

Imagining no outcome,

Within the hope of some

Eventual reckoning.

It’s what we do I suppose,

This human interaction

We want so badly,

We cannot feel the alternative.

Or maybe, simply

We’re caught up in a dream,

One step closer,

The real thing.

No longer fighting our soul,

Feeling it again,

With a wonderful passion.

I suppose it isn’t nothing,

If the solemn winds blow.

The quiet tears run slow.