We used to do this thing with our hands… a sorta kinda dance in darkness… where our fingers would trace, interlope and lace….
We used to kind of laugh even at the sound of our own silly voices… we challenged each other, and inspired better choices…
Your hands reach for things unseen in a place between wakefulness and a dream.
I hate the furrow of your brow when you are lost to us all traveling your mindscape to places your heart can’t escape.
Your eyes shine brighter than my midnight sun if you let it. Please my wayward traveller, don’t forget it.
Take my ticket and keep it safe. Take my hope for us and keep it sacred. Take my love for you, and know it is true.
Oh, wayward traveller understand my bohemian heart, know it like you know my hand… trust it like it is as sure as dry land for a drowning sailor.
And you, my Wayward traveller should know, too, that I am here waiting for you. And waiting with me is a promise of comfort, of cool water, and clean bed.. where a soul as tread upon as yours or mine may rest a weary head.
