I dreamt of illicit love. The kind of love you can’t own, can’t hold, can’t nail down, or ever make your own. It is diaphanous, ethereal, intangible.

While I dreamt, the wind pummeled its fists against the side of the house, rousing the trees from their somnolent state, and threatening anarchy.

The snow swirled, and then adhered itself to the frosted tree tops.

You loved me in the dream.

In real life you do not, although you may have considered it once or twice. Like most, you settled for safety which is always the saner choice.

It seems that I have spent most of my life standing on the outside and peering in at other people’s lives and hearths, where love’s light casts a warm glow, and couples huddle together in shared camaraderie.

I walk away, a solitary voyeur, swallowed up by winter’s cold.

Mostly, I am happy, the stars and moon my trusted companions.

After supper I pull out my new banjo, caressing the gritty skin that feels like sand paper. I labor over chord charts, willing my fingers to bend into unfamiliar positions, chords so different from the guitar chords I have learned over the years.

The strings sing.

And then I am happy.