Wanting it to be different. Knowing it’s not.
It is death. The death of our togetherness.
Can I stand alone, completely alone?
Can I put my trust in that which knows of things to come,
Even when it refuses to clue me in?
Can I step off and step off and step off, again?
Pema says it’s the way of the birdling,
A life of nest-leaving.
I seem to like the quicksand of inertia,
Staying in the place of half-in, half-out.
The knife is never my tool-of-choice.
Rather, I select the seam ripper, and break threads loose, one stitch at a time.
Why not the knife?
It cuts clean. It removes what is done. It severs quickly.
I fear the finality of the knife.
Instead, I lounge in garments of in-between.
Burden. Yoke. Saddle.
They’re not even mine.
And not real food for the heart, but,
processed goop, packaged in Styrofoam, empty calories with no life force.
I hear the sound of Your voice
And I follow. My heart perks up.
I am with myself. And You.