This desire is beyond me.
Though it stems from my essence
it is a vast ocean of longing
that drowns any who would dare peer into the deep.
Mystics know that only such an unstoppable force can create life.
I trust the heart that made this wish.
I trust the thrust of evolution,
the wild unwinding of this tightly coiled yearning.
This illustrious hiss of serpent stirring my soil.
I want him.
Though I know he's only a metaphor.
A mirror melting and molten
an image of perfect absolution
in the arms of the Beloved.
who could only ever be inside me.
Though my skill at projection
defeats my remembrance of origination.
And I long for the comfort of sight and touch.
All I want is love. We seem to think it's all we need.
As Juliet whispered to the moonlit face of her other
"The more I give to thee, the more I have,"
But that story haunts us with its tragedy,
not the reminding of love's infinitude.
Like this drama of self pulling against self,
set against the backdrop of memory,
past or future,
of one perfect night.
That one perfect night when I got my wish.
That has not yet been, and yet always lives in that realm
just outside of our field of vision.
And though life can give us what is asked,
it never guarantees duration
Or that it will match the magnificence
of our imagination.
Can I love myself enough?
Can I sit in deserving fully enough,
to taste the nectar of adoration?
Or will I clasp the poisonous asp to my breast
like the unrequited lover of old?
I can only ever hold either of those insubstantial alliances for a moment
before the longed-for embrace takes the life it gives.
Like the shadowed serpent,
what I think I want has been cast so far away by the very fear of not having,
which is only ecliped by the fear of actually having,
that I am left alone with my wanting,
rather than risking the letting go that quickly follows such ecstasy.
It must be so,
else I would not have known bliss and agony in such rapid succession
with such relentless repetition.
In the still, soft dark of the quiet night.
Longing for a specter of a memory,
a wafting intangibility,
that for a moment let me taste the fruit of wholeness.
And yet was but a shade of what could be.
is beyond me.
I cannot fight it, fear giving into it,
feel dead when I turn away from it.
and lost when I look its way.
No power of choice,
no carefulness of voice,
no force of will,
can make the fallen a Queen again.
But perhaps I can choose the manner of sacrifice
that which is given.
The spell has been cast,
the fate sealed,
the fire inevitable,
the thirst unquenchable.
But perhaps the gift is in the intractable inevitability
of this human frailty.
The fulfillment wiser than the plan.
And offering all the broken pieces,
in all their imperfect glory,
will bring me to the edge of history.
And give me what I truly wanted,
under the face of the longing,
and beyond any inessential wish.