Goodnight, though no one hears,
while I cannot know if you are listening.
So I might say it again to my own ears,
again, for my own heart which hears me.
Though I might not be as interesting,
my heart is won and reveals me.
Patience, say some here and there,
and like some fool, I listen, impatiently.
It's the best I can do before one so fair,
hoping against hope and biding my time.
And so I wander about, now aimlessly,
a victim of some nameless crime.
Perhaps there's more I cannot see,
and more reasons for this slight of hand.
You are you and all you I might yet be,
a thousand versions more and better still.
Days are gone, sleeping upon the land,
and resting upon my tired will.
Dear friend, if I should be so bold,
I'm a friend and always so, so you know.
Do not fear a friendship growing cold,
as things were once, so they will always be.
Yet I do not speak it, still you'll know,
goodnight you, to you, from me.
Brian Francis Hudon
June 29, 2016
