Thursday, August 29, 2013

(1) Island

It is a sick & twisted thing 
Not knowing who
(& where)
you are

Everything aches & arches
These cycles of my
physical self...
They don't make it easier

Every inch of me hungry
Every night lonely
Every prayer feverish--
hoping God will keep me sane,
& whole

Maybe arranged marriage,
blind dates, old systems,
aren't all bad
At least then I'd know you
And could build my life
on making you happy

My heart is deep as space
but clear as a glassy creek

If I could just dream of you
Hear comfort in the words you speak
That your lips 
could caress my name--
Maybe it would quench the burning 
& stave off the doubt

How long will I be stranded?
Or should I make a home
of this island
& decorate it with shells?

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