Dearest, Now youre on the road, following drifted white sheets to the Uncle who called you. Your answer, though noble, aches in an endless echo through my heart. I hate being so far, the length stretches like a thousand foot snake and I cannot seem to find its head. You run so far and so hard, keeping each breath captive so as to take all from it you can! I love to hear it, like your heartbeat, slow and loud in your chest and close and warm to me. All is winter, always, with you gone---even the short time that it is--its painful. Tiny pin-prics reach into my chest, using their twinges of pain to examine my heart like an uncaring physician. Cold hands grasp my hips and keep them still, my skin is blue with lacking love-glow and the fingers which long for you stifen as in death. But spring, like all good things, will turn and face me again. And I wait for it, a flower burried in snow wishing for the red hot sun to burn the pain away. Ans as I thing on it, the warmer I feel--not so alone with my mind's eye on your return. That fleeting insect called hope revisits me once more, reminding me of the brevity of your leave. And still my thoughts sift like sand through a sive and I see the car, half-white covered and yet red as the Bellfire. The stag leaves the doe in safety of the down. I see why, and understand. My heart does not. Prayers of safety, prayers of happiness and mostly prayers of love. All are for you. My dearest--the one I clall Beloved; one who is most loved.That name--that one who seems the most prized and appriciated is yours. I am your support--the rock of your ships lea and tie. Come back and I will always be waiting. Like a handprint on my heart you are there, unwavering and unwashed by the pulsing tides and ever inconstant moon.