At one time or another, most of us will feel longing in some way: a road not taken, a friend who moved, disappointment with work, wanting to have children…the list goes on. Sometimes, we can’t put our finger on what we’re longing for; everything is just permeated by a vacuum.

I’ve come to think of longing as hope’s sick cousin. Like hope, longing looks toward something it doesn’t have. But whereas hope fuels optimism and nurtures endurance, longing slowly poisons with despair. Below is a poem I wrote about longing that also helped me process some I was dealing with. This poem appears in my book, Event Horizon, which just came out on Amazon.


is grief’s daydream.

It dances alone,
holding an empty hand,
touching an empty waist.

Longing is a stalker.

Longing folds its hands
and prays
to an empty chair.

It is 
a stare-way
your eyes climb

Longing wishes
a black hole.

Published by mrteague

Teague McKamey lives in Washington state with his wife and two children. Teague’s poetry has appeared in several journals and in self-published books. He blogs at thevoiceofone.org and awanderingminstrel.com. In all areas of life, Teague desires that Christ may be magnified in his body (Php. 1:20).

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