Dear reader,
I feel a lump,
Behind my sternum,
Lodged in place,
Neighbour to the heart.
We had talked about,
How we were different,
But the unspoken truth,
That our love for each other,
Was not strong enough,
To overcome those differences.
An untruthful truth.
Dear reader,
What is this lump I feel?
It will not leave me be,
Right between my lungs,
Tight.
Your feminine enthralls me,
Draws me;
My masculine sees you as beauty pure,
Incapable of seeing anything else,
And why would it try?
What does it want, you ask?
And quite right,
For trouble often follows it closely,
I will tell you what this accursed says to me:
Liberate your eyes,
Let them caress her every dimension,
Envelope her in your arms,
Warmth, worldly and deep;
Ignite a fire so powerful,
She will want to fight for her world,
With a fierceness that slows time,
A light that can and will shine,
Brighter, hotter, and longer than yours.
Let her be the architect and you the builder,
And so the designs would be so grand.
It says to me:
With every glance,
You will understand better why it is,
You’re drawn and fixated,
Incapable of seeing anything less than a goddess;
Cursed nonetheless,
A curse that the masculine seeks,
To unravel,
To turn from chains and thorns,
Into sustenance and warmth,
Continuity and life,
Tenderness and sensuality.
