Distant dreams of love stretches across the miles like an unseen suspension bridge,
A fragile connection binding souls separated by distances wide,
This longing lingers heavy, like a mist, shrouding every thought,
Life is suspended, caught between highways and heartbeats,
Voices echo softly in the phone wires, reminders of what once was,
Each whisper carries the weight of dreams waiting to be realized.
There is an ache woven into the fabric of every passing day,
Every sunrise brings the familiar sting of absence and longing,
Faces seen only through the glow of screens spark fleeting warmth,
Life’s rhythm and blues feels both distant and close,
The thoughts remain in this uncharted territory wrestle with desire,
Caught in the delicate balance, fear of failure and chasing it down.
Sometimes distant dreams drift like flames and smoke in the twilight,
A fleeting flicker that dances just beyond the roads and interstates,
Nights filled with screens, smiles with headphones echoed with laughter,
Yet uncertainty fills the spaces unspoken and untraveled,
Reminding that longing can feel both tender and strange,
A choice building between safety and distant dreams.
The above poem, Distant Dreams, was designed to be a second chapter to my poem Ghosts but my hope is that Distant Dreams is able to simply stand on its own. However since it is chapter two, here is chapter one:
Ghosts
Out here, we are the edge of somewhere and nowhere,
The last stretch of stateside before the river runs south.
This town clings to the border like it forgot where to go,
Like we are all half-waiting to cross over, but never quite do.
The highway bridges at the water’s edge,
Where only the brave or the lost take that final step.
There is a sense of leaving baked into our streets,
Empty storefronts and cracked paint, memories curling at the seams.
People passing through as if pulled by a compass,
Or heading home, burdened by hope or regret.
And those of us who stay, caught in the middle of things,
We feel the pull, too, the highway calling us forward.
Sometimes I think we are ghosts of the last American exit,
Keeping watch, barely remembered, barely here.
In the headlights and shadows, our days play out,
Familiar as dawn, uncertain as dusk.
Some nights, I hear voices in the wind,
Like Sinclair’s words weaving through the fog,
Telling me it is okay to want to go and okay to stay,
That some borders are not meant to be crossed,
But sometimes you have to drive until the road disappears.