Just beyond the window pane,
yet a fingertip could detect the warmth.
On the other side of the door,
a knock so soft, as if a fading song.
Whispers and promises,
teasing a longing yearning for a home.
Each heartbeat urges turning another corner,
but each corner is another turn alone.
The place where love was thought to dwell
was each time just beyond recognizable,
just beyond touch,
just beyond attainable.
©February 2018, Christina Anne Hawthorne