Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances:

In the distance, we long, long-removed, for that
sensation which she gives. In her presence
we are magnets of selfsame poles, she stationary,
we drawn closer to be repelled by our own
implicit forces. This oscillating spiral
draws our bodies closer with each iteration
or flings us outward into the cold of the void
the cold of Hashan's alley in a blinding blizzard
the cold of oneness, aloneness, in the dark
the cold of the forge's ephemeral heat
the cold implied in arrhythmia

as we taper
to some conclusion that we hope will break our bonds
free our tormented "heart"-called things
make sure of our selves in the light of the dawn
as sunlight's rays pierce the unfathomed depths
and for a too-short day, we run too free
between the shadows' omnipresent cast
until the sun sets once again upon the warmth ephemeral
(I told you so)
wherein, once left, all craft decays, all order's semblance
passes by the way of desire
and endless distances traversed refuse to bring it back.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Mayan, in the year 304 AF.