It washes over me, a wave of, oh, loneliness, aloneness, that damned feeling again. The one I've been locking away in a drawer all these years. Have you ever heard a saxophone crying in a dark room? That's it. The song of a solitary loon wailing in the cold twilight. The sighing of naked branches in the winter air. The silence of my house. Again. Still.

I have spent years ignoring this. Or pretending to ignore it. How desperately I want someone to hear with me a beautiful song or see the waltzing of the first snow or pass the time by a cold April creek. Someone who would create his own life, his own world, and then share his with me (and I mine with him). Yet somehow this creation in itself seems to have found itself to be perfectly static -- never anything more than a creation in my own world. Never more than an idea. A thought. A desire.

You. When I see you, and every time, I become inspired. You inspire me. What the hell is this? I seem doomed to a life of dreams. Doomed to dreams only? I would never for once give up the power to dream. But how I would be grateful if this one dream would actually be, be between you and me. You and me.

You and me. The sound of that, does it frighten you? It is not much more than it already is. I do not remember any single time we've spent together that we did not seem happy with each other. Of course, it's never been other than a friendship. A comfortableness. You know, that feeling you get when it's just the two of us enjoying each other. But isn't that what it's always been, supposed to be, about?

I enjoy you. Of course, it's only a dream. What can I do? Try to lock the sadness away in that secret place yet again, and go on with my eyes smiling, my dreams flying.

Tonight I may dream of you.