Atrip

Sadly I, enroute to different places,
Can only think of coming home to you.
The smiling, beloved, looked-for faces
That I will see are not diminished, true,
But everything about the trip I take
Is haunted by the way I did not go.
The compromises that we have to make
In life are constant, and I feel them grow
With every passing year; we cannot be
Both where we are and everywhere we should.
The place I go still deeply calls to me
And on its own I call the trip a good.
But going without you and far away
Seems like a blemish on the coming day.