That little bit of crazy that leaks out my soul in the guise of tears
flowing from my eyes,
closed to how you see me as opposed to how I appear to be to me.
That little bit of crazy that says such silly things,
Like this is what I feel, I can’t describe it, I just know it’s there and that it’s real…
Though I suppose real for who would beget a question more fitting than an accusation of
and now, it’s not us.
What was found,
What was lost,
In this wretch like me now void of the amazing grace
that was also, but isn’t right this second,
Can you pick and choose which choice to make?
Which words to heed as warnings,
Which words to heed as gifts,
Which words to deny and to embrace
Though none of those things do anything more than amplify our inability to receive any of those things when offered.
No choice to receive the warnings that are attached to the gifts with anything less than or more than denial. No embrace.
All along on some level that we are rarely ever deep enough to understand,
we know that there is more to say without saying anything. More to love than words, not the ones we want to say, but the ones that the other longs to hear. And then words are lost and I love you is supposed to be the heal all salve to the wounds freshly inflicted self and other- wise.
But it doesn’t.
Tears and pain still so surface that breath, let alone voice can hardly be found…and a craving for the silence found in the soft breath of another,
How I rely on love to heal me. Not my love or the love of another, but just love. The love that fills in the holes we leave in ourselves and each other.
that existed before us as us exists,
that allows us to be us at all
after the damage we have done.