The Journey Back
his shadow falls soft, cold on his hot coffee mug,
and dawn is but a crimson promise of her hug;
his gaze explores the pattern on the tablecloth,
flowery symmetry of a butterfly or a moth,
as his forefinger traces absent-mindedly
the rim of a lotus leaf, tip of a lily;
from far away she has sworn that she will be here,
so he drifts, remembering, a little house where,
with the windows open and the breeze blowing right,
one can taste the salt air, smell the sea in the night;
here is where the reason for the journey back lies,
quite far, a hundred miles away as the crow flies.
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