Coming Home

His mood swept over me like a kiss too deep. Rife with implications. Frayed flesh trying to mend.

We'd wandered. Our deserts. As always we had. Searching for water that wasn't to come.

Bemoaned the clouds for not providing. Solitude is as much a prison as it is a fortress. From high up in that tower it's hard to let down your hair. Lose it all to the notion of rescue that may never come to pass.

They stampede as if they want to save you, but what they really want is to be saved. Their horses snort and whinny eager to run. But the moment that you let them they accuse you of not having your saddle stayed.

And you tell yourself it's only love. Just the sad little dreams of selfish hearts wanting to own what isn't theirs.

They could have everything and still they'd want something more. Because they're human. That's what they do. Turn those cravings into addictions. Until everything they have is lost. And what they wanted doesn't even remember their name.

We're never so tragic as we are when we think what we want is what we can have.

Never so alone as when we realize it was by it we were had.