Headlights streak
The empty canvas
Of the Midwestern midnight.

We are headed home.

But the road seemed too cold
To sustain us for long.
It was dying; ghostly-white with salt.
With snow,
And with ice that struck twisted at our tires,
Berating us,
And pulling us from our frozen course.

Still,
Our bus beat onward.

Inside,
My weary eyes settled
On the horizon line.
And I waited,
Slipping softly through a dream.

How far are we now?

Though,
Tired as I was,
With the hum of the wheels
Quietly fighting the road,
The steady engine digesting diesel,
And the lethargic murmur that seeped through the cabin,

I could not rest.

I could only endure every mile with full consciousness,
Keep careful vigil around every turn,
Waiting.

For you.

A wealth of strength
Discovered in the prospect of seeing you again.

That I would hear you,
Calling to me from beneath those prairie lights.

Your eyes, glinting with a promise,
From the shimmering, moonlit street,
That no frozen distance,
Or unbearable hardship,
Could compromise a friendship so pure.