Mirage

Not now. Not yet.
Perhaps never.

One day I will open it,
this door,
this message,

this:

gift.

Why must it be a gift?
It's not.

In walking innumerable miles,
over such varied terrains,
sometimes so very tired,
and straining to see one, just one

person

a sentient shelter

a kind of oasis.

And then there is one,
like the last time but different again,
Oh,
the act of recognition,
and an awkward embrace,
and some muted period of time
feeling,
possibly a sort of resolved satisfaction-
still far away even when it's close.

And then it's gone,
and that's supposed to be a gift.

Keep going, eyes to the horizon,

look up, look forward,

look within.
Again.

It's still here somewhere.

Don't open this. Only tears which will never come.