22 years on, and the nights now are so much colder, less things for us to say.
Heather is not the elven maiden she once was, but still so kind and so sweet,
as a chubby elven mum, who knows the other world, knows the other lights.
Indiana is flat and wide open, and the sun is rising, still dark and cold morning.
A calm mood, eye of a never ending mental storm, I feel content here with her.
I’m passing through, on the road to a place only whispered of in my frantic dreams.
Heather and her son are asleep on the couch, cuddled up close under a blanket.
He may be half Fae, and she may be half angel, brave and full of righteous fire.
They are wonders, and I am lost, and I’ll never have a family, as the end comes.
Last night, I read a story of magic and bravery to her son, as he sat in my lap.
He was enraptured and his mind was full of light, the light that is in the stars.
Heather caught my eye. I looked to her. There was such love in her, I looked away.
They will sleep until the sun is fully in the sky, and I won’t stay to say goodbye.
Moving on, moving north, to the forests and rainy mornings that still remain.
Heading for a place only whispered of in my frantic dreams.