I’m like a sky, rolling in like a wave.
A sweet, sentient night sky studded with the stars people have prayed to.
But being here now is unfamiliar to hands that pray.
“No, no, no,” I say. “Just open.” This, entirely amendable—wanting only to love the love-deficit,
the love-beggars, the love-reachers—he in you, who is so diligent and determined, trying to earn his way to the ocean he is swimming in.
“Baby, I am right here. I want you, too”.
Always a risk. Always the line of demarcation that determines between the long queue of wanters and the no-line window of havers. People set up camp, build cities and towns on the landfill of wanting.
What would you pine for if you knew that always and ever you were equally desired by what is issuing the desire within you?
The issuer—albeit love itself—is impersonal, without form and beckoning you always: “Come home.”
She draws you through people and ideas, time and spaces, duty and recklessness. That’s the real romance. What puts the crappy raised 4 kids together, held hands until the end farce to shame.
Love Her goddammit. Love Her and we can meet there in the fullness. Love Her and she will allow me to love you.
Be like Picasso, “I do not seek. I find.”