After all that time away, you go back. After the sad goodbyes and the loneliness, and the desperate nothings at arrival, and the other travelers exceeding their distances, passing you on a trail, the course heavily trod, your look for your own footpath. It would be bright as the computer image, brighter, the grass would be soft and the path would wind as a dream winds. But each turn, you would follow. Why wouldn't you? Trying and earnest like the old knight or the refugee, humiliated and out of place. There is no stopping you, wanderer, even as you know no sense except this odd, embarrassing love, and love is a neutral god, bored as an adolescent. That which made you has gone off to its unhurried, golden-threaded life. You had said a ridiculous, dramatic farewell. You wish it were romantic but it is unromantic. You turn and go back.